Reflections in the Silver Mist
by Rannaro
Summary: When Hermione conjured her flask in the Shrieking Shack to hold Snape's memory strands, what exactly did she capture? Harry is not certain at first, but he is determined to preserve it.
1. Chapter 1

_Wednesday, January 6, 1999_

Harry Potter looked out the window of his office and sighed. It was a deep, discontented sigh because first it was not really his office but rather one corner of the space he shared with five other wizards, and second because he was bored and depressed. _Who would have believed just eight months after defeating Voldemort that I'd be longing for those days again? There's got to be something wrong with me._ Harry glanced at the office clock, hoping that it was close to five, when he would be able to leave. _Ten minutes. Thank Merlin, only ten minutes to go._

It was the slowest ten minutes of his life. At a minute to five, Harry started putting everything back into drawers and file boxes – his ink and quill, the account books, the requisition forms, the assignment sheets – all the horrid paperwork that he had to learn how to do if he was ever to be permitted to sign up for field training in the Auror Department.

"Leaving already?" said Mark Savage with a sneer. "I guess after being the Savior of the Wizarding World, being an Auror is dull as dishwater." Savage was Harry's supervisor.

"No, really, it's great work," Harry said rather lamely. "Necessary work. Valuable. What kind of Auror would I be if I didn't understand how to do the basic stuff?

"Excellent attitude, Potter. You stick to it. I have to turn in an evaluation on you in three weeks, and we want it to be a good one, don't we?"

"Yes, sir," was all Harry said, there not being very much else he could say, and headed out of the office to the elevators and the atrium. Instead of taking the floo connection home, he decided to go out onto the street. There was no hurry. There wasn't much for him at home anyway.

Once outside the Ministry, Harry debated how to get to the boarding house where he lived. He'd several months earlier chosen to get his own place in London rather than be a burden on the Weasley family, and had long since regretted the choice. He couldn't go back, though. That would be admitting defeat, admitting that he was dependent on them. He looked around, then chose to take the Tube.

The problem was, he had no one to talk to, to hang out with. Ginny and Luna were in seventh year at Hogwarts – he'd seen them during their Christmas break and wouldn't be able to see them again until Easter unless he went to Hogsmeade for the February excursion. Ron was helping George in Diagon Alley and was turning into quite the businessman, often working twelve hour days and relishing the money he was finally earning. Hermione had started legal training and spent all her evenings studying case files, and Neville had gone back to Hogwarts to study for his NEWTs so he could qualify for the Ministry's worldwide program for the classification and preservation of endangered magical plant species.

Harry was filling out forms and submitting requisitions for the Auror Department and he hated it.

Lost in his moping reverie, Harry almost missed his station, leaping up from his seat and bolting for the already closing door just in time to force it to open again and let him off at Bond Street station in Mayfair. Outside he discovered that it was snowing, and he turned up his coat collar. A short walk in a generally south-eastern direction brought him to a narrow, pedestrian-only street lined with fashionable shops. The entrance to Harry's building was between a shop that sold expensive Italian shoes and a ladies' beauty parlor. The shopkeepers were muggles. Harry's building belonged to an elderly witch.

"Evening, Mr. Potter. Good day at the Ministry, I trust," the concierge greeted him when he entered the lobby, a lobby that was much larger than the doorway squeezed between two shops.

"Good evening, Mrs. Purdy," Harry replied. "About the same as usual."

"That's all right, then," said Mrs. Purdy, who had no idea what Harry did at the Ministry. "Supper's at 6:30. Roast beef tonight."

Harry's rooms were four flights up, at the top of the building. He was the only resident who had an entire floor to himself, consisting of three large, airy rooms. The other witches and wizards who lived there didn't have Harry's financial means, so he didn't like to show off that he had money. He ate with them in the boarding house's dining room, lived modestly, and disturbed people as little as possible. The other boarders were considerably older than Harry was and were correspondingly unimpressed by his scar and his recent past, though all agreed that he seemed to be a very nice boy.

Muttering the spell that opened his door, Harry stepped into the front room, removed his overcoat, and hung it on a rack by the door. He took off his shoes, too, for they were damp from the light dusting of snow. Then he padded in his stocking feet into the bedroom.

There was a thin, silver mist trailing out from under the door of the closet where Harry kept his clothes.

Harry stared for a few seconds at the smoky grayish thread, having no idea what it could possibly be. Then, pulling his wand from his pocket and holding it ready, he advanced cautiously to the closet door and warily opened it.

A tiny pool of glistening fog was forming on the floor of the closet, drifting down from somewhere among the clothing.

Moving quickly, Harry pushed the clothes aside and found the jacket that was the source of the mess. Reaching into the pocket, he extracted a glass flask packed with silver tendrils. Its stopper had loosened, allowing the ghostly contents to seep out.

Panic sharpened Harry's reflexes. The spell he needed surfaced instantly. _"Contineo in ampullam!"_ he cried, and a second flask appeared, larger than the first, drawing the contents from the older, deteriorating container into itself, absorbing the spilled part as well. When every particle of the mist was inside the new flask, Harry stoppered it. The original flask vanished with a wave of his wand.

His heart thumping unnaturally loudly in his chest, Harry carried the flask into the front room and set it carefully on the table in the room's center. Then he fixed himself a cup of tea and sat in front of the flask to regroup his thoughts and calm himself down.

_How could I have been so stupid, leaving it in a jacket like that? It wasn't even a transfigured container. It was conjured out of thin air. What if I'd decided to go to a movie, or visit the Weasleys? By the time I got home…_ Harry didn't want to think about what he might have found had he arrived even an hour later.

Sipping his tea and relaxing now, Harry contemplated the swirling silver fog in front of him. It was really quite pretty, the threads twisting and intertwining in endlessly shifting patterns. Mesmerizing, in fact. _Odd that something this beautiful could come from such an ugly git._

That was the wrong thing to think of, though, because it brought to mind the last time that Harry had seen the man whose thoughts coiled in the flask on his table. Severus Snape had died clutching Harry's robes, practically in Harry's arms, staring desperately into Harry's eyes. Harry recalled the moment that the light behind the black eyes had faded and gone out, and a lump rose in his throat.

_Gone,_ Harry thought. _They're all gone. Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, Wormtail, Snape. Every person who could tell me something about my past, about my parents, is gone, and I have to live the rest of my life not knowing…_

That wasn't exactly true, of course. Hagrid knew some things, as did other teachers like McGonagall and Flitwick. Aunt Petunia still held memories that Harry might be able to coax out of her. But it wasn't the same. It wasn't like talking to his dad's friends…

Harry stared at the flask. Not like talking to his dad's friends maybe, but he still had access to one of his mum's friends. He hadn't liked thinking about it – that his mum had been friends with someone he hated so much – but wasn't it still possible that there was a silver lining to that cloud? Harry knew that the night Snape died there hadn't been time to view even a fraction of what Hermione had captured in her flask. The most important things had surfaced first, allowing Harry to fulfill his destiny, and then he'd stuffed the whole thing into a jacket pocket to hang in his closet for months.

_This new flask is _ex nihilo_, too. It's going to deteriorate just like Hermione's flask did, and I'll lose it all. It'll go even faster because I'm not as good at this as Hermione is. I have to get it into a proper container as soon as possible!_

Harry rose and strode to the door, where he put on his shoes and his overcoat. _Diagon Alley. Surely someone in Diagon Alley knows how to preserve things like memories. I'll get a larger bottle and a pensieve._

Picking up the flask and cradling it in his arm, Harry clattered down the steps. "Mrs. Purdy, I have to go out, and I may be a while. Do you think you could keep some supper warm for me?"

"Of course, dear," the motherly concierge smiled. "And if you're very late, it'll be in the kitchen waiting. Back door?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry, and crossed behind Mrs. Purdy's desk to go out into a sheltered open space where he could apparate. Grasping the flask securely, he concentrated and apparated to Diagon Alley.

It was harder than he'd anticipated. None of the apothecary shops wanted to touch either the flask Harry showed them or its contents. Two apothecaries simply told him they weren't qualified in such matters. The third was more direct. "Those are someone's thoughts. From the look of it, all their thoughts. People don't give you all their thoughts; they can't live without them. So we're talking about a death. Maybe you'd better get that thing out of here. Or maybe I'd better contact the Ministry."

Harry got out. Then, beginning to feel depressed again, he reluctantly decided to try Knockturn Alley. At least there they'd be less likely to summon the Ministry.

The second shop Harry tried in Knockturn Alley was called 'Gills and Drams.' The apothecary examined Harry's flask carefully. "These ain't been well cared for," he said. "They're all of a jumble, like they were spilled out sudden-like – violently, if you take my meaning. Don't know as it's even possible to untangle 'em. I'd need a day or two just to transfer 'em to a decent flask without breaking the threads, and no guarantee they wouldn't be all crossed and confused."

There was nothing else to do. Harry agreed and arranged with the man to return Friday evening. He spent the following two days in a haze of worry and anticipation.

After work on Friday, Harry went straight to Diagon Alley, where he purchased a small but very expensive pensieve before going to 'Gills and Drams.'

The new flask, larger than the one Harry had left, was not what Harry expected. Made of green crystal, it was angular with thin sides, the shoulders spreading outward from the neck and then tapering to a toe pincher base. It looked for all the world like a small, green, glass coffin. The apothecary leered at Harry's shocked expression. "It's for a dead man, ain't it?" he said. "Green for Slytherin, too."

Harry didn't answer. He paid the money the man asked, took the flask, and apparated to Mayfair.

"There he is!" sang out Mr. Upton as Harry entered the lobby of the boarding house from the apparation yard. "Could you ever give us a bit of information, Harry? It'll only take a minute."

Harry smiled. Desmond Upton, second floor rear, was an inventor – at least that was what he told anyone who would listen. Although only in his sixties, he seemed to have an uncommonly poor memory, for he was constantly asking Harry the same questions about filing for patents with the Ministry of Magic. Harry secretly believed that this was a ruse Mr. Upton used in order to bring up the fact that he was an inventor in casual conversation. Harry saw no reason to expose this motive, since Mr. Upton's questions really did take only a minute.

"Be right there, sir," he called back. "Good evening, Mrs. Purdy," he then said to the concierge. "It's a fine day, isn't it?"

"For January," she replied, then laughed. "La, you're thinking about the weekend, aren't you, Mr. Potter? Sleeping in and all? Well, supper's at 6:30. It's poached salmon tonight."

Harry went over to Mr. Upton in the sitting area of the lobby, where he was talking with Mr. Whitbeck, the artist (third floor, rear). After answering Upton's patent questions, Harry took the stairs two at a time up to his fourth floor rooms.

With considerable excitement, Harry unwrapped his new pensieve and placed it on the table in the front room. Then next to it he stood the green, coffin-shaped flask. Deciding to wait until later for a cup of tea, he sat facing the flask and took out his wand. There were so many threads of memory swirling in the crystal coffin – how was it possible to choose the right one? Hoping for a glimpse of at least one of his parents, or a moment with Dumbledore, Harry unstoppered the flask, hooked a short filament of memory on the tip of his wand, and placed it in the pensieve. Then, holding his breath, he leaned into the silver mist and let himself fall…

Harry found himself in the tiny sitting room of a very old worker's cottage. The windows were dirty, the carpet threadbare, and the sofa and chairs worn. It was apparently summer, and the room was relatively light, which was lucky as there was only one lamp. In the center of the room was a low table for serving tea or coffee, and seated on the floor next to the table was a small child with soft black hair twining in infant curls around his narrow, pointed face. He looked to be about five years old.

It was not what Harry had hoped or expected. He approached the coffee table and noted that the boy was drawing a picture on a scrap of newspaper with a crayon. He was dressed in brown corduroy overalls and a blue shirt, both too big for him, and the socks he wore on his shoeless feet needed darning. Looking over the child's shoulder, Harry saw a clumsy picture of a bright red sun in a green sky, under which stood the awkward stick figures of a man and a woman, both dressed in brown with purple hair and eyes.

Harry snorted with laughter and moved to face the artist, whose features were set in absorbed concentration. Finishing scratching brown streaks on the man's trousers, the child laid his crayon aside and reached for another, and it was then that Harry saw there were only four crayons – red, green, brown, and purple, all either broken or worn to stubs.

There was a sound from upstairs, and the boy raised his head. Harry stared straight into the pointed pale face with its frame of black hair and noted with horror that the coal black eyes were just as closed, just as cold and empty, as they had been when he saw them last in the Shrieking Shack.

Before Harry had time to think about this, a dark-haired, thin-featured woman, wearing an apron and carrying a moth-eaten feather duster, appeared at the head of the stairs. "Your dad's come home early. Quick, through the kitchen 'til we know if he's poorly." Her voice was thick with eastern Lancashire.

The boy was on his feet in an instant, running through the kitchen and out the rear door into the small paved area beyond. Harry hesitated, then felt the inescapable tug of the pensieve and followed the child. Through the closed kitchen door, both of them could hear the conversation in the sitting room.

"Toby! You're home early. Nothing wrong, is there?"

"Everythin's right as rain, 'Leen lass. Thought I'd call on m' girlfriend. Ya got time f'r an old mill hand? Where's th' boy?"

"Out playing," answered the woman, and her voice rose slightly in volume. "It's a bit 'til supper. I reckon he'll be out for a half hour or more yet."

The man chuckled. "Half hour's good. More's even better. Wha' say we move upstairs?" The voices ceased, and footsteps could be heard on the stairs, the sound muffled by the closed rear door.

Harry turned to look at the boy, whose face was still set in the same look of focused concentration that he'd worn while drawing. Then he turned away from the door and walked toward the alleyway beyond the paved area, but stopped suddenly to gaze down at his socks. He'd had to leave the house too quickly to even think about shoes. Calmly he sat on the rear step and took the socks off. Stuffing them into a pocket, he walked barefooted out to the rocky wasteland that came almost to the rear of his cottage, climbed onto a large, flat boulder, and sat there watching the moor and the sun, clearly trying to estimate how long it would be before a half hour had passed.

Harry again moved to a position where he could watch the boy's face. It remained expressionless, though the black eyes darted in all directions, noting every sound and movement.

Suddenly a voice, good-natured and matronly, called from behind the boy, "Afternoon, Russ. What're ya doing out here?"

"Ah sore a rappit, Mizziz 'Anson!" the boy cried, slipping from the boulder and running to meet her, and the voice was so utterly different from what Harry anticipated, so young and high, so steeped in the same regional accents as those of the adults, that it was a moment before he registered what the boy had actually said – about the rabbit he'd just seen.

"You're not chucking stones at them rabbits like them other boys, are ya, dear?" Mrs. Hanson asked sternly.

"No 'm," said little Russ. "Don't know how."

"How long you waiting for?"

"Half an hour."

"How much of that half hour's gone by already?"

Russ looked at the ground. "Don't know," he admitted.

"Would ya like t' come over t' my place an' have a jam buttie and a glass of milk?"

For the first time an expression of pleasure crossed the young face. "Oh, yes," he said, then added suddenly, "Can't."

"Why not, love?"

For answer, Russ took a step forward and pointed down at his bare feet.

Mrs. Hanson laughed. "Whatever have ya done with your shoes, child?"

Russ pointed at his house.

"I'll tell ya what. I'll stand here by the door, and you creep in silent as a mouse, snag 'em and creep back out. What say?"

The boy nodded vigorously, and the two tiptoed into the area yard where the woman held the door open while the boy snuck in, found his shoes, and snuck out again. He then sat on the step, pulled his socks on, and watched while she tied his shoes. That done, the woman held her hand out to the boy, he took it, and hand in hand they walked away from the old cottage, the boy beginning to tell the woman about the picture he was drawing…

The scene suddenly blurred and jumped. Harry glanced around him as the shapes and colors flashed and hiccupped. It was, he told himself, probably because the memory thread was damaged, and waited to see what would happen. When the scene stabilized, he could tell from the quality of the light that it was later in the evening. The boy's mother was standing behind the house calling softly.

"Russ! Where've ya got to, child? Russ?"

"Over here, 'Leen. Your boy's with me." Mrs. Hanson approached softly, still holding Russ's hand. "We've been taking tea together."

"Thank you, Kate. I was that worried. I should've known you'd have an eye out for him."

"He's like my own. Ya know that. All's quiet on the home front?"

"Right as rain. C'mon, Russ. Supper's waiting."

Russ ran to his mother, who knelt to embrace him. Harry was standing behind her and saw the boy's face as they came together. Behind the dark eyes something opened, like a door into a garden, and suddenly the empty cold was filled with dancing warmth. Mother and son hugged each other, sharing what could be shared of the day through the unspoken joining of their eyes. Then 'Leen took her son's hand and led him into the kitchen where his supper was waiting…

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the pensieve where the gossamer thread of the memory still floated. It was not, not in a million years, what he had expected. He'd seen Snape as a small child before, huddled in a corner crying while his mother cowered before an abusive husband. That had been a stark, simple image. This one was layered, complex, and he needed to think about it. From far below he could hear someone calling his name.

"Mr. Potter? Supper's on, Mr. Potter. Will you come down now, or shall I put some aside to keep warm for you?"

Harry struggled to his feet and went to the door. "I'll be down right away, Mrs. Purdy. Thank you." He went back to the table, paused, then returned the memory to its flask. He didn't know if he would ever be able to find the same one again out of so many hundreds, but it didn't matter. He already knew that he would be pondering what he had just seen for the rest of the evening and into the weekend.

Supper that evening in the boarding house was as supper always was. Mrs. Nokes, the owner of the establishment, sat at the head of the table with the writer Mr. Ashbrook at the foot as he was the eldest male resident. Harry was between the Dowd sisters on the right side. The conversation seldom varied, being a litany of the small things of the day. Usually Harry listened politely, adding few comments. He enjoyed suppers. It was like living in a pleasant, warm family where you were the youngest child.

This evening, he found himself thinking about the people around him in a new way. Had Ashbrook scribbled little stories in his school notebooks instead of paying attention to his teachers? Had Whitbeck begun his career with awkward stick figures in the standard child's medium, crayon on newspaper? Every one of them had started as a new, innocent baby. What had set them on their different paths, and what had brought them together here? Harry wished he'd thought to ask questions of his dead friends while he still had the time. He had some information, but nowhere near enough. He didn't even know the names of his grandparents.

Later that evening, alone again in his rooms, Harry watched the strands of memory move and shift in the green flask. Part of him understood the little boy – Russ – very well. Keep out of everyone's way. Russ had run for the back door as if keeping out of his dad's way was a daily occurrence, an automatic reflex. He went outside because the house was so small. Harry'd gone to his cupboard under the stairs for the same reason. Out of sight, out of mind.

_And no wonder he thought I was so stupid about the occlumency. He was doing it ever since he was a baby. I kind of do that too with people who can't ride brooms. I used to wonder why I was so good on a broom. It's because my dad taught me how to fly when I was a baby. I'll bet I spent three months doing nothing but ride that broom I got for my first birthday. When I got on a broom at Hogwarts, it just all came back._

It was 8:00. Harry took a deep breath and picked up his wand. He still wanted to see something of his parents or of Dumbledore, but he was also prepared to see other things. He'd told Voldemort that Snape was Dumbledore's servant from the moment that Voldemort had killed Harry's mother, but now he wasn't so sure. It might have been more complex than that. Just as the scene he'd witnessed earlier had been more complex than his previous glimpse.

Harry unstoppered the flask and removed another piece of memory, placed it in the pensieve, and entered it…

Professor Snape stood before the gargoyle on the seventh floor, watching it move aside to admit him to the headmaster's office. This was a much younger professor climbing the spiral staircase than Harry'd known – he appeared to be in his early twenties. He was narrow shouldered and very slender, wearing a belted school gown, but no cloak or cape. He looked nervous. At least that was how Harry interpreted the way his eyes darted around, sizing up the situation.

Even before Snape reached the office door, Harry could hear the voices inside, one raised in anger and the other, Dumbledore's, trying to calm and soothe.

"It's an outrage! An outrage! Five years of education and this is the result! Do you know how much we've invested in his career? All destroyed because of an incompetent teaching staff! I'm telling you Dumbledore…"

"Yes, Horatio, I can hear that. And I understand your disappointment and frustration. But the exams are conducted in the most…"

"Why wasn't he properly prepared for them? Why were we led to believe…"

Snape, the light behind his eyes closed and guarded, put a hand on the door latch and entered the room. Dumbledore was seated at his desk while a large, florid-faced man stood in front of him, hand raised in an almost threatening gesture, clutching a roll of parchment. Dumbledore rose as Snape walked into the room.

"Ah, Severus. Come in please. Horatio, this is Professor Snape, Ambrose's Potions instructor. Severus, this is Horatio Camberwell. Horatio is on the Board of Governors for the school. He has some concerns about Ambrose's OWLs…"

"Concerns! I want him to explain this!" Camberwell tossed the piece of parchment onto the table where Snape could look at it, a parchment Harry recognized as the official OWL scores.

Snape stepped up to the table and unrolled the scroll. If anything, his pale face got paler. "A 'P' on his Potions OWL? I don't understand. Master Camberwell always…"

Horatio Camberwell strode across the room, large and aggressive, and Snape took several steps backwards.

"Yes! you poor excuse for a Potions master! He always does, doesn't he!" Camberwell swung on Dumbledore. "If we'd known he was having trouble in Potions, we'd have hired tutors, we'd have given him extra support, the way we did in Transfiguration. He was having trouble there, but we got a tutor and he worked his tail off, and he got an 'E.' But his marks in Potions came up after Slughorn left, and we thought he was all right there."

"Severus?" Dumbledore prompted. "Was Master Camberwell performing proficiently in his work?"

"Of course he was, Headmaster," Snape exclaimed. "His essays were good, his tests adequate, his practical work more than acceptable. I expected him to… an 'E' for certain. I don't understand…"

"I understand!" Camberwell roared, thrusting his face to within an inch of Snape's, who seemed to quail in front of him. "You're incompetent! The marks in your classes are meaningless! I'm going to see that you're fired from Hogwarts!"

"Now Horatio," Dumbledore said quietly, "I would resist you in that. In the two years that Severus has been on the staff, the percentage of students who have passed their OWLs in Potions has risen, as has the number who get 'Os' or 'Es.' That is hardly the record of an incompetent teacher."

"Then explain how he gives high marks to a student who can't squeak an 'Acceptable' on an OWL."

Dumbledore sighed. "The Express has already arrived. The students should be gathering in the Hall. Perhaps we might ask Ambrose himself that question."

The three left the office and walked down the long flights of stairs, Dumbledore in the lead and Snape trailing diffidently behind. McGonagall was in the entrance hall waiting for the first years. "Have you seen Ambrose Camberwell yet, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked. "We should like to see him in the Potions classroom if you do not mind."

"Certainly, Headmaster," McGonagall replied, casting a curious glance at Snape, who shifted uncomfortably. She went into the Great Hall while the three men took the dungeon steps to the Potions room. Ambrose, a tall, sturdy, good-looking boy, joined them a few minutes later.

"Master Camberwell," Dumbledore said, peering over his glasses, "your father has come today to speak with us about your OWL scores."

"Yeah." The boy shrugged. "I guess I didn't do so good in Potions."

"Why was that?"

"I didn't try hard enough, I guess."

"You did understand how important the OWLs are, did you not? It was hardly the moment in which not to do your best."

Ambrose was looking even more embarrassed. "I had this idea I could pull it off. Guess I was wrong."

"But Master Camberwell," Snape said, "You could pull it off. I would have sworn to it. You do very good work. You got top marks for your last Draught of Peace…"

Ambrose interrupted him with a bark of laughter. "No, Professor. I got top marks for Mandy Twinklebine's Draught of Peace. She was monitoring everything I did. I didn't have to think about anything. I just did what she told me. That's why I couldn't remember it during the exam."

The room was absolutely silent for a moment. Then Snape stammered, "Who… helped you with your… essays?"

"Different people. I was worried you'd catch on because my marks on tests weren't quite as good as the marks on essays, but you never did."

"Some people just get nervous during tests," Snape whispered.

"Nervous!" Mr. Camberwell exploded. "You let him get through two years of practical work in Potions by having someone else do it! You let him cheat on his homework and you never noticed! What kind of a teacher are you? Dumbledore, I want this person off the staff… He's ruined my son's career!"

"Now, now, Horatio," said Dumbledore. "Let us look at this dispassionately. When all is said and done, Severus's greatest error was to trust too much in your son's industry and honesty. He has forgotten that at the age of fifteen or sixteen, many students still see the attaining of the goal – the good mark – as more important than the route taken to get there. They have other priorities than to spend all their time with books. You and I know differently, but the children do not yet. Severus was simply not so attuned to this problem as more experienced teachers are. I am certain he will never err in this fashion again."

"What about Ambrose?" Camberwell was calming down, though the look he gave his son did not bode well for the boy's immediate comfort.

"If Ambrose is willing to – how did you phrase it? – work his tail off during this sixth year, to do his best in all the classes he takes and to study with the tutors you are so willing to provide, the school would be willing to allow him to repeat his fifth year Potions class and take the OWL again in June. There are precedents. Would that be acceptable to you, Severus?"

"Of course, Headmaster."

Camberwell also agreed, and the little group went out to join the school at the welcoming feast and to watch the sorting…

Once again Harry went clattering down the stairs, only this time he didn't apparate to Diagon Alley. "Mrs. Purdy," he gasped to the concierge, "do you happen to have a jar or other glass container with a very tight stopper?"

"Bless you, Mr. Potter, I have several," said the woman. "I could let you borrow one. Why don't you come into the kitchen and have a look-see?"

The kitchen was high-ceilinged and old fashioned, with a hearth on one side that Harry was vaguely aware was connected to the floo network. Mrs. Purdy pulled out an assortment of jars and bottles with stoppers, and Harry chose a tiny one that was about the size of a medicine vial. Mrs. Purdy wiped it out carefully and handed the little bottle to him.

With a quick "Thanks a lot, ma'am," Harry raced back upstairs.

_I can't lose this one,_ he thought as he set the vial next to the pensieve where the second memory still floated lazily. _Neville has to see this one. Hermione has to see this one. If I put it back with the others, I'll never find it again. It doesn't explain everything, but now I at least have some idea why._

With exquisite care, Harry lifted the memory thread from the pensieve and placed it in the jar, which he then tightly stoppered.

_Do I have time for one more?_ The next day was Saturday, and Mrs. Purdy was right – he could sleep in. Harry contemplated the coffin flask for a moment, then selected a long memory strand. and placed it in the pensieve…

Snape was once again climbing the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office, but this time it was a Snape Harry knew well. Now in his mid thirties, the professor's face was set in an almost permanent scowl, his eyes hard and cynical, his movements controlled and confident. The door opened before him, and once again Dumbledore rose from his desk in greeting.

"Severus! Do come in, have a seat. I must say it has been too long since you graced this office with your presence and me with your company. Let me pour you a glass of something. Mead? Firewhisky? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I doubt you'll find it a pleasure, Headmaster. I've come about the constant danger presented to the school and to Master Potter by the continued presence of…"

"Severus, we have discussed this over and over again since last August. I can only repeat myself. Remus is not here to injure Harry. He is not assisting Sirius in any way. You do need to relax a bit, you know. You are becoming bilious. Please, sit down. Have some firewhisky. If you will sit by the fire with me and partake of a libation or two, for the sake of your own health, I promise I shall listen to you."

"Really?" said Snape, sarcasm in the rise and fall of his voice. "And will you act on what I say?"

"That depends on what you say, Severus." Dumbledore held out a large measure of firewhisky. Snape looked at it for a moment, then took the glass and sat down.

"Headmaster," he began, "when did Black escape from Azkaban?"

"A very easy question indeed. Very early in the morning of July 31."

"When was the escape publicized?"

"The same day."

"When did Lupin apply for the Dark Arts position?"

"The following day."

"Yes, and it took him an entire month to get here. A month during which he could have been in communication with Black. Why didn't he come to Hogwarts in August like the rest of us? He's helping Black get his hands on Potter so Black can kill the boy."

"Or maybe he truly is here because of Sirius, except that he's trying to protect Harry from him instead of harm him. Is that not an equally possible explanation?"

"It might have been a possibility once, but since Halloween…"

"I have told you before, Severus. I do not believe that Remus let Sirius into the castle that evening."

"Then who did? Would you accuse me or any other member of the staff of the deed?"

"Of course not!"

"Then who? Hogwarts is protected at night by the strongest of spells, and is now surrounded by dementors. Black couldn't have gotten inside on his own."

"I must confess that I do not know, Severus, but it is not Remus Lupin."

Snape sipped his firewhisky. "Lupin," he said quietly, "has been trying to lure Potter out of Hogwarts so that he can be more easily attacked."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"He has been gradually wheedling his way into the boy's confidence. On the day of the first Hogsmeade excursion – Halloween in fact – when Potter was unable to go, Lupin invited him into his office. To 'chat.'"

"How would you know this?" Dumbledore asked.

"They were both there when I brought Lupin his Wolfsbane potion. They ceased talking the instant I entered, and then Lupin told me some nonsense about a grindylow, so he was obviously trying to hide something… By the way, Headmaster, did you know he no longer drinks the potion in my presence?"

"Do you suspect him of not taking it?"

"Oh, he takes it. But what if it is part of their plan that on some future occasion he not take it, so that with the full moon he would be at the height and strength of his power? We would have no way of knowing it was going to happen until it was too late."

"Surely…"

"He's been meeting privately with Potter on other occasions as well. A little bit too chummy for a teacher – student relationship, don't you think?"

"Severus…"

"Do you remember last week, Headmaster? The Quidditch game between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "The mock dementor attack."

"Where was Lupin?"

"He was there. I saw him speaking to Harry after the match."

"Did you see him at the beginning of the match? Did anyone notice him in the stands at the beginning, when the castle was empty… Headmaster, that night Black was in the Gryffindor dormitories…"

"Where he is accused of having attacked Ronald Weasley, not Harry Potter."

"Where he attacked a student! An intruder in the dormitories, an attack on any student, is cause for alarm. Besides, it was dark. How was he to know which bed was Potter's? And then, of course, there is today's incident."

"Ah, the reason why you have come visiting." Dumbledore sighed, and the sound seemed to irritate Snape enormously because he clutched his glass so tightly that some of the firewhisky sloshed on his hand. Dumbledore rose and refilled the glass.

"Potter," said Snape, setting the glass down and wiping his hand with a handkerchief, "was in Hogsmeade today."

Dumbledore frowned. "Harry is unable to go to Hogsmeade."

"He was there nevertheless. Malfoy saw him, or rather part of him because he was wearing that dratted invisibility cloak…"

"Harry has an invisibility cloak?"

Snape glared at Dumbledore. "I presume it's the one his father had. Did you know nothing of what was going on in the school when we were students? At any rate, instead of staying safely in the village, Potter was leaving it in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. Fortunately he was unable to resist attacking Malfoy from ambush and allowed the cloak to slip from his head. At that point he had to return as quickly as possible to Hogwarts where I found him."

"With the invisibility cloak?"

"No. With something much worse. With a piece of enchanted parchment which, when I tried to unlock its contents, insulted me using four different identities, one of which was 'Padfoot.' Do you recognize the name, Headmaster? It's what Potter's father always used to call his best friend. It was Black's nickname in school. Potter was leaving Hogsmeade wrapped in an invisibility cloak and bearing an enchanted item that came from Sirius Black!"

"Do you have the parchment?" Now Dumbledore looked concerned.

"No. I followed school procedure. I contacted the Dark Arts instructor. And what did Lupin do? He professed not to recognize the name Padfoot, said that the parchment was merely a Zonko joke, and then confiscated it so that I could not examine it any further. Headmaster, Sirius Black is trying to entice Potter away from Hogwarts to kill him, and Remus Lupin is helping him!"

Dumbledore got to his feet and began pacing the room while Snape sat in silence sipping his drink. "No," said Dumbledore at last. "It makes no sense. It never did make any sense. Why would either Sirius or Remus want to harm James's son? They were such good friends. I never could understand why Sirius would want to harm James either. That whole business is a mystery. There was no reason… no motive…"

"Yes there was, Headmaster. Revenge. Revenge will trump friendship every time."

"Revenge?" Dumbledore said incredulously, turning to face Snape, whose eyes were glittering with intensity. "Revenge for what?"

"For the death of his brother. He must have been planning it for a long time, but the Potters were too well protected. Then the Fidelius Charm gave him the opportunity, but only if he was the secret keeper. Black and his brother Regulus were the last males left to carry on the family name. After James killed Regulus, the Black family was gone – Black must have realized he would never… What better revenge for the destruction of the house of Black than to encompass the destruction of the house of Potter? That's why the boy is so important to him."

Dumbledore pulled over a chair so that he could sit face to face with Snape. "Severus," he said, "James Potter did not kill Regulus Black. Regulus Black was killed by Death Eaters."

"That's a lie. Nobody at headquarters knew what had become of him. We searched for him, for his body, for weeks. Our contacts in the Ministry said it wasn't the Aurors either, so it must have been someone in the Order. They couldn't make it too public, though, because Regulus was Black's brother – it might upset him too much. Then Black discovered that Potter was the murderer and he snapped. He arranged for them all to die, Potter, his… wife…, and his son, in a way that would still leave him free to act. It just backfired is all, and he ended up in Azkaban, but now he's going to finish the job."

"How do you know all of this? Who told you?"

"Nobody told me. Nobody had to. I spent a good part of my school years being Black's punching bag, and I know that nothing could turn him into a raging madman as quickly as the thought that someone was threatening Reggie. Now Reggie's gone, and the last Black is trying to wipe out the last Potter, and I intend to stop him."

Tilting his head to one side, Dumbledore studied Snape's face. "It is odd to hear that you care about the old wizarding families, Severus."

"Care! I don't care. Families die out, it's the way of the world, wizard and muggle alike. I'm the last Snape and the last Prince, but you don't see me moping about it. Black and Lupin want to kill Potter because he's all that's left of James, and if that were all, I'd obey you and stay clear of the whole business, but he's also all that's left of Lily, and if you order me to stay clear, I'll defy you."

"We shall have to test your resolve, then, Severus, for I am ordering you not to take action against Lupin."

"What if I have incontrovertible proof that Lupin has been deceiving you?"

"Then you must bring it here to me."

"And if the proof is a raging werewolf?"

Dumbledore was silent. Snape drained his glass of firewhisky, rose, and strode to the door. As he walked down the spiral staircase, the memory faded…

Harry sat staring at the pensieve for a long time, trying to put some order into the thoughts rioting in his brain. It was now well after midnight, but he hadn't noticed. Time was not what was important.

_All this time, all this time I thought he was just being petty and vindictive about something that had happened all those years ago, but he really had reasons. Pretty good reasons, too. It must have all been coming together like some terrible nightmare for him – Sirius lured him into the Shrieking Shack so that Lupin could kill him, and Sirius was luring me into the Shrieking Shack so that Lupin could kill me. Why did Lupin forget to take his potion that evening? That's why Snape was so sure he was right about him…_ Harry crossed his arms on the table and laid his head on them…

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	2. Chapter 2

_Saturday, January 9, 1999_

Waking suddenly with a jerk the next morning Harry found himself still sitting at the table. He blinked his eyes, estimating by the bright sunshine that it was probably around 8:00 in the morning. He started to stretch and yawn and then remembered the pensieve. The pensieve that he'd left out all night with a loose memory…

It was all right. The memory swirled unharmed in the pensieve. Harry picked it up with his wand and placed it in Mrs. Purdy's vial, then went downstairs for a spot of breakfast. He needed to talk to someone. He needed to talk to Ron and Hermione, who'd been with him in the Shack that night. Mrs. Purdy was in the kitchen.

"Good morning, ma'am," Harry said politely. "Would it be all right if I sent a couple of messages by owl?"

Mrs. Nokes's owl was a plump, fluffy little thing with an unusually flat skull. He was a northern hawk owl, with black bands on the sides of his head, falcon-shaped wings, and a longish tail. His name was Archimedes and, like the rest of his species, he preferred hunting during the day to hunting at night, a habit which frequently brought him into contact with tourists in Hyde Park.

Harry quickly scribbled two notes on the pad of paper Mrs. Nokes kept by the rear door, then went into the little paved yard to whistle for Archimedes. He paid the bird his five knuts – more not being required as both addresses were in London – and watched as the owl soared into the air. Then he went into the dining room for his breakfast.

Breakfast was buffet style, and always a country breakfast. Harry took milk, juice, and coffee to the table, then went back to load his plate with sausages, toast, scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms, and a little bowl of cereal. He was about to sit down when Deirdre Dowd waved to him from the other end of the table.

"Join me, Mr. Potter," she called. "Arwella's being tiresome this morning. Don't be afraid, it's only for breakfast."

"Why should I be afraid, Miss Deirdre?" Harry laughed as he moved his dishes over to where she sat. "I always find your conversation fascinating."

The Dowd sisters were in their seventies, and unless you looked at them closely, it was impossible to guess that they were identical twins. They had obviously rebelled against the whole twin idea at a very young age and were as different as two identical twins could be. Arwella was traditional and feminine. She wore her hair in a loose French twist, and preferred soft silk blouses with lots of jewelry. Deirdre was more active, enjoying sports like tennis and golf, her hair short and practical, with the slacks and sweaters to go with it. Neither looked out of place on a London street, and in their company Harry was beginning to realize just how narrow his acquaintance with the wizarding world was.

"Just look at her." Deirdre nodded to her sister. "Keeping a journal like some 19th century schoolgirl. She got an 'inspiration' on her way down to breakfast, and now a human being has to take second place to a notebook and a quill."

"I always rather wished I'd had the discipline to keep a journal," said Harry. "It must be nice to go back and relive your ideas and feelings."

"There!" said Arwella, looking up from her writing. "At least he understands."

"And in the interests of reliving the past, you ignore the present," said Deirdre. She leaned closer to Harry, tapping her finger on the table for emphasis. "Mark my words, she's going to regret this self-indulgent exhibitionism. Just wait 'til she passes on. Those journals are going to be all over Witch Weekly. 'Confessions of an Octogenarian' they'll call it. Then she'll be sorry she ignored me at breakfast."

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Harry with a smile, "but how would you consider a journal to be exhibitionism?"

"The journal's an exhibit. She's made herself the number one attraction of the exhibit. Exhibitionism!" Deirdre winked at Harry.

"You know," said Arwella, "that no one but myself is ever going to read these journals."

"That's what you say now, my dear, but what happens after you're gone? I'll tell you what happens. Cheap tabloid news rags will fall all over themselves for titillating tidbits from the racy past."

"I didn't write anything racy!" Arwella insisted.

"No? Is there anything in there about the way Fauntleroy Frobisher kisses?"

Harry had trouble keeping a straight face. There was a pause, and then Arwella blushed scarlet. "No one would ever print something like that," she said. "It's too personal. It's private."

"Nothing's private once you're dead, 'Wella. Ask this young man here. He works for the Ministry. Is there anything private once you're dead, Mr. Potter?"

Harry was laughing outright now. "No, ma'am. I suppose nothing's private after you're dead. Not unless you put a Suttee spell on it."

"What's a Suttee spell?" Arwella asked, a little bit too quickly.

"It just ensures that when someone passes away, all their private papers self-immolate. It protects the privacy of the deceased."

Harry and the sisters debated the pros and cons of the Suttee spell with great good humor for the rest of the meal, and then Harry went upstairs to wait for the answers to his owl messages. The sight of the green flask and the pensieve on the table, passively waiting for his return, stopped him dead in his tracks.

_What am I doing?_ Harry thought. _This is like Miss Arwella's journal. What right do I have to pry into another person's life like this? So far, I haven't found anything too personal, except maybe the first one, but what if I do? Should I even be looking at these at all? This isn't why he gave me his thoughts._

Harry sat in front of the flask with its moving memories. _Why did he give me his thoughts? Why all of them?_ He remembered that night in the Shack, Snape lying on the floor, life ebbing rapidly from his body… _He had to give me Dumbledore's instructions, but by that time he was too far gone to be able to pick and choose. so he gave me everything. But that doesn't mean he wanted me to look at it._

Getting up to fix a cup of tea, Harry continued his reverie. _The things that came out in the pensieve in Dumbledore's office, they were the things on the surface of his mind, the strongest thoughts he had – about my mother, and what he'd done to lose her, and how he tried to atone for hurting her – that's what he was thinking about at the end. But there's got to be more. What about all the other times when they were still friends… Wouldn't he want me to see that, so I'd know there were good times as well as bad?_

He'd just finished making the tea when Archimedes flapped at the window. Harry opened it for the owl and took the single letter he carried. It was from Ron.

_Harry,_

_Hermione's over here, so one letter 'll do for us both. Is something_

_wrong? We'll both come as soon as we can, but you have to either_

_come fetch us or tell us how to get to you. Do you have a floo?_

_Ron_

Harry jotted on a scrap of paper: 'The floo address is Avery Row,' gave it to Archimedes along with a two-knut tip, and hurried down to the kitchen to be there when his friends arrived. Passing the dining room, on a whim, he asked the Dowd sisters, "Excuse me, but would you mind telling me when you were at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, that was quite some time ago," replied Arwella. "We're not spring chickens, you know." (Deirdre snorted at the phrase 'spring chickens.') "We first went there in September 1942, and we finished in June 1949."

"Thank you," Harry said and continued into the kitchen. "I have guests arriving Mrs. Purdy," he told the concierge who was also the cook. "Any minute now."

"I appreciate the warning," Mrs. Purdy said, picking up a pie that had been cooling on a small table near the hearth and moving it out of harm's way. "It's not often we have visitors."

Ron shot into the room two minutes later, skidding out onto the floor in a cloud of dust. Hermione was right behind him, yet managed to keep her feet as she staggered into Harry. "I hate travel by floo," she said, brushing off her robes.

"Mrs. Purdy," Harry turned to the woman, who was now beating eggs, her wand keeping the whisk in constant motion. "Mrs. Purdy, these are my friends, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley." To Hermione and Ron he said, "Mrs. Purdy is in charge of the whole building, and she's a wonderful cook."

After exchanging pleasantries, Harry led his friends upstairs, pausing to introduce them to the Dowd sisters on the way. Once the door had closed behind them in his front room, Ron let out a burst of laughter. "Crikes, Harry! You're living in little old lady land!"

"Ronald!" Hermione snapped, but Harry held up his hand and she said nothing further.

"Do you realize, Ron, old boy, that those little old ladies were school mates of Voldemort's."

"You're joking!"

"Did you ever want more information about that Chamber of Secrets? It opened in their second year. I'll bet they knew Myrtle before she died."

"Wicked!" Ron exclaimed, his eyes now glowing with the desire to talk to little old ladies.

"Harry," Hermione said. "What's that on the table?" She pointed to the green glass coffin. "There's something moving inside it."

"Oh," said Harry. "That. That's why I asked you over. Those are memories." He tried to sound casual.

"Whose?" Hermione asked. Harry could practically hear the gears turning in her brain. The expression of concentration on her face reminded him suddenly of the five-year-old Snape. "Harry," she continued, her voice carrying accusation, "those are Professor Snape's memories, aren't they?"

"Snape's?" said Ron, edging closer and peering at the flask. "Wicked! Let's have a look, shall we?"

"No!" Hermione stated flatly and rounded on Harry. "You haven't been prying into Professor Snape's personal life, have you?"

Harry couldn't face her indignation, especially as she was voicing the very thoughts he'd been having himself. He stared at the floor instead, and felt himself blushing as he nodded in reply to her question.

"Oh c'mon, 'Mione!" Ron cried. "It's not going to matter to him anymore! He's dead!"

Hermione turned slowly and fixed Ron with a scathing stare. "Would you like people to be able to look at your life under a microscope after you're dead? Think of them standing around commenting on the way you pick your nose."

"I don't pick my nose!" Ron glared back at her, watching her tap her foot, waiting for his answer. "Of course I don't want that now, but I can pretty much guarantee that after I'm dead, I won't care. D' you think old Snape picked his nose?"

"Ron," said Hermione very carefully, "every human being deserves dignity and respect. Peeking into their bedroom windows at night is illegal, and peeking into their brains ought to be illegal, too."

"But we can't hurt him anymore! He's dead!"

"All the more reason why we have to be careful." Hermione knit her brows. "Ron, would you hit a man who had his hands tied behind his back?"

"Of course not. What kind of beast do you think I am?"

"Why not?"

"You don't hit someone who can't defend himself."

"Exactly. We didn't like Professor Snape, but he suffered for the same cause we were fighting for. Maybe if we'd realized it earlier, he could have given Dumbledore's information to Harry in Hogwarts, and he wouldn't have had to die. But now he's dead, and he deserves better than to have to provide amusement for peeping Toms. He can't defend himself anymore, so we have to be extra careful because we hold his reputation, his honor, in our hands. It's not something to be treated lightly."

Harry shifted uneasily. "He always said bad things about my dad, and he's dead, too."

Hermione's face softened. "When was the first time he spoke to you about your father?"

"Not until third year. That time he caught me – Draco caught me – in Hogsmeade without permission. Snape said I was just like my dad, too arrogant to think that the rules applied to me just like everyone else." Harry paused. "He was upset. He really thought I was in danger going to Hogsmeade. He believed Sirius was there trying to kill me. He had some pretty good reasons."

"How do you know that?' asked Hermione, clearly puzzled.

"I saw it. In one of the memories. He was telling Dumbledore about my excursion. He thought… Don't you see, Hermione? Watching that one memory helped me understand something I never understood before. Now I know why he distrusted Lupin, and why he suspected Sirius. I even know why he didn't want you to help Neville with his potions."

"Hey," said Ron suddenly. "D' you think he's choosing the memories you're watching, like he wants you to understand?'

"Honestly, Ron." Hermione rolled her eyes. "He's dead."

"No!" Harry shouted, his breath coming faster with excitement. "Maybe Ron's right. Look, I've watched memories go into a pensieve. Dumbledore did it. You pull a memory strand out right through your skull, one memory at a time. That's not what happened to Snape. He just poured out all his thoughts, everything, through his mouth, his eyes, his… You were there, Hermione! You saw it! The flask you conjured was losing stability, so I went to Diagon Alley to see if someone could save the memory strands. One of the apothecaries said a person who gave up that many thoughts couldn't live, but Snape knew he was dying anyway. What if part of him – really him – is in that flask?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think that's possible, Harry."

"Why not? When I put his memories into Dumbledore's pensieve, why did I get exactly the right ones – to show why I could trust Snape, and then give me my instructions? Maybe it wasn't because those were on the surface of his mind. Maybe it was because he was planning them."

"You can't prove it."

"I can try." Harry reached past Ron and unstoppered the flask. He felt a little awkward about it, but he nonetheless leaned forward and spoke into the bottle. "I just want to know if there's any consciousness in there. I just want to know if there's something that's aware of what's outside, something that's more than just a memory." Then he removed a short memory strand from the flask and placed it into the pensieve.

Harry explained to Ron and Hermione how to enter the pensieve world, then went first to demonstrate. He was standing by the dirty river in the town where Snape and his own mother had grown up. Just on the other side of the river, beyond a row of houses, the chimney of the mill rose, soot blackened brick casting a blight on the land. It was obviously winter, for the shallow places on the river had a thin crusting of ice.

Hermione and Ron popped into the scene, and Harry pointed toward a thicket of trees just ahead of them, under one of which a thin, dark-haired boy of about nine or ten was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, shivering in a large pea jacket that was not adequate against the cold. The black eyes that surveyed the area around him were cold and empty.

"Don't be surprised," Harry whispered, "if they call him Russ. That's what his mother called him."

"Look," said Hermione, and pointed past the trees. A girl about the same age as the boy was approaching. She was bundled warmly against the cold, her hair under a woolen cap. Enough of it peeked out to show that it was a deep, burnished red, but Harry didn't need that reassurance. He'd already recognized his mother.

"What happened?" was the first thing Lily said when she arrived at the tree.

"Nothing, why?" the boy Russ replied.

"Severus Snape, you're lying to me. You've changed, gotten all… distant and turned off." She brushed off a spot next to him and sat down.

"I'm always distant and turned… off. There's no one at school for me to… turn on for. Except you, of course."

"How's your mum?"

"Okay, I guess."

"And your dad?"

Russ didn't answer. Instead he looked across the river. "I suppose he's okay, too," he said after a moment.

"Do they fight?"

"They argue a lot."

"Don't take it to heart," said Lily and reached into her pocket. "I brought you something." She pulled out a little square of gingerbread with icing on it, then she fished out a tiny, partially burnt candle. "I can't light it because I can't use matches, but you can pretend to blow it out. I know it's late." She stuck the candle into the icing and handed the gingerbread to Russ. "Happy tenth birthday," she said.

Russ stared down at the little square present. Harry, watching, thought of his very first little birthday cake, given to him by Hagrid, then suddenly realizing what was about to happen, stepped quickly past Ron so that he had a good view of Russ's face. "Thanks," Russ said, and looked into Lily's eyes.

It was the same. It was exactly the same as when the five-year-old had looked into his mother's eyes. Down in the recesses of darkness, a door opened, flooding the black eyes with glinting light. The distant emptiness had vanished. This was a boy who could smile and laugh like any other boy.

"How did you… know?" Russ asked.

Lily giggled. "I'm not telling," she said. "My secret."

"I know yours is at the end of… January. What day is it?"

"Not telling that either. How do you know?"

"Miss Wade last year had a list of months and… birthdays, and our names in order, but I couldn't see the… dates. How can I say 'Happy Birthday' to you if I don't… know?"

Lily was laughing now. "You just wait 'til you know it's past, then you say 'Sorry I'm late, but happy birthday.' Just like I did. There. That's my secret."

"You mean you really didn't know… yesterday was my birthday?" Russ wasn't laughing, but he managed a bright smile.

"Wow. I got really close, didn't I?"

The ground was too cold to continue sitting on, so they stood next to the tree and shared the gingerbread. Lily did most of the talking, chatting about her Christmas break and the places she'd gone. Russ didn't talk much, just saying things like, "I was sick for a few days," and "Nothing much. The usual. Kind of boring, really." Lily started telling a whole series of silly jokes, and soon both children reached a point where they'd giggle at anything.

After that, Lily had to go home. They said, 'see you in school' and they arranged to meet the following week. Russ crossed the river, Harry and his friends following. They passed a dingy tobacco shop, and Harry ran over to it to look at the newspapers. The date was Saturday, January 10, 1970…

After surfacing back into his front room with Ron and Hermione, Harry turned to them, his face glowing with triumph. "There!" he crowed. "What about that! You can't tell me that was pure coincidence!"

Both of them looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "That was an interesting experience, Harry," Hermione said, "but I don't see that it proves anything."

"That's because you didn't see the newspaper. It was January 10, 1970."

"And this is important because…?"

"Merlin," Ron breathed in awe. "He's right. It's today."

"What are you talking about?"

"His birthday. Harry says what we saw was on January 10th. Midget Snape in the memory said that the day before, January 9th, was his birthday. Today's January 9th. Today's Snape's birthday."

"Today's the ninth?"

"Honestly, Hermione, it's all that studying. You're losing your grip." Ron grinned and nudged Harry with an elbow. "You work too hard, girl, and you'll start forgetting what year it is."

"Well then," said Hermione, "what exactly does it mean? In terms of what we're dealing with, what does it mean?"

Harry started pacing in an unconscious imitation of Dumbledore. "I wasn't sure what I was hoping for, but we got something pretty good. I asked for some evidence of an awareness, and we got that. We didn't get Professor Snape rising from the grave, but we did get a memory that had a clear, unmistakable reference to today's date. I think that's important. Something in that flask is aware."

"If you're right," Hermione said slowly, "and I will admit the evidence points to more than a coincidence, then part of our dilemma is solved. If the flask can choose which memories to show us, then it can also choose which ones to conceal. As long as you don't insist on progressively watching every single one, the flask can preserve Professor Snape's privacy. I wonder what he wants."

Ron shook his head. "He may not want anything. It's not like he spent years working out how to pass his memories to Harry here, you know. He got bit in the neck and he was dying. He dumped his memory because he had a message to give him before he died. How much time did he have? Thirty seconds tops to make the decision? If you got a piece of awareness in there, it was sheer luck – not an agenda."

"He's right," Hermione admitted. "There's no mystery here, no task to fulfill. What we have is a flask full of the memories of a person, and the mass of memories appears to be able to filter what we see." She frowned. "Do you think it might also be able to edit what we see?"

"I don't think so," said Harry. "I once saw a memory that someone tried to edit. It was all scratchy and choppy, not like a real memory. We could always check, though. If we ever find one that we're in, we could look at our own memories of the event and compare them. If they're different, we'll know the ones in the flask aren't reliable."

The three agreed to hold off on the evaluation of reliability of the memories until they had something to test. By now it was time for lunch, so they went downstairs. Like breakfast, lunch was an informal meal. Mr. Ashbrook and Mr. Upton, for example, always took their food to their rooms so that they could continue writing and inventing undisturbed. The Dowd sisters were in the dining room, as was the landlady, Mrs. Nokes.

Harry introduced Hermione and Ron to Mrs. Nokes and asked if it was all right for them to eat lunch in the house. Mrs. Nokes graciously invited them to join the table, and pointed them toward the buffet. Ron was careful not to pile his plate too high, and the six of them sat quietly eating for a moment.

"Mr. Potter," said Arwella, after dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, "was inquiring about our years at Hogwarts. You were just a bit ahead of us, weren't you Mrs. Nokes.?"

"I was sorted in 1938 and sat for my NEWTs in 1945," said Mrs. Nokes with a regal air. She wore a monocle instead of glasses to read with, and could use it to great effect.

"If you don't mind my asking," Hermione said, "which houses were you in? We were all sorted into Gryffindor."

"Ah, Gryffindor," sighed Mrs. Nokes. "So energetic, but so unpredictable. You never could tell where you stood with a Gryffindor. Excuse me, but in my day – long before you were born, much less sorted – Gryffindor students had a bit of a reputation for displaying deep emotions that occasionally clouded their judgment. I am sure that the more modern generation has dispelled that rumor by its dedication to good sense as well as commendable courage. I myself was in Slytherin house."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione glanced at each other. Ron started to ask about Voldemort, but Harry could see the question forming and nudged him into silence. Instead he said politely, "I imagine the school was a lot different then."

"You've got the right of it there," said Deirdre. "Does the Hat still separate twins? I was in Ravenclaw, while 'Wella was in Hufflepuff., but it didn't really make much difference because the houses were friendlier then. We mixed more. I understand today they hardly talk to each other."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Nokes," Hermione said, "but does that mean Slytherin, too?"

"Of course, dear. We had the house competitions, of course, but the houses mixed more outside of classes. There were the clubs…"

"And the school teams," added Deirdre. "That was something that pulled the whole school together."

"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Nokes sighed. "It was a sad day when they stopped the inter-school games. I used to love it when Hogwarts played Quidditch against St. Taflan's. They were smaller than Hogwarts, of course, so they only had the one team. We had the house teams, and our players had more opportunity for serious games, so we usually won, but St. Taflan's was an all-boys' school, and the players were generally very competitive."

"And quite good-looking," said Arwella. "Don't forget that."

"Did you play other games in inter-school competition?" asked Hermione. "The only game we play in official competition today is Quidditch, but I've heard there used to be more."

"My goodness, yes!" exclaimed Deirdre. "There were the wizard chess tournaments. The best were the team matches where they played in pairs. Hogwarts's best teams were a Ravenclaw-Gryffindor mix. Brains and daring together could be an unbeatable combination."

"Hufflepuff did best at games that needed skill and accuracy," Arwella said. "We were usually the backbone of the Goufbawis and Gobstones teams."

"I don't think I've ever heard of Goufbawis," said Ron.

"It's a bit like golf," Mrs. Nokes explained, "except that the 'holes' are wickets in the air, and the balls are allowed one independent move per round. I understand the game was originally played with hedgehogs."

"Did Hogwarts," Harry asked nonchalantly, "have a good Gobstones team?"

"Not in my time," said Mrs. Nokes.

"Hogwarts started winning in our sixth year," Deirdre said, relishing the memory. "We had a third year Hufflepuff girl who was a master in the ring. I never saw anyone as deadly at lagging, and she could loft a taw right into the middle of the ducks and cut a mib out of the circle neat as you please. It's a good thing we were only allowed to play for fair at Hogwarts or she'd have been the only duck keeper in the school. What was her name, 'Wella? She was in your house. Of course, with the competitive streak she had, she could have been in Slytherin."

"Eileen," Arwella answered as soon as Deirdre paused for breath. "A quiet girl in the common room, but the moment she knuckled down… poetry."

"Of course by that time," Deirdre went on, "the houses were already drifting apart. Slytherin was keeping pretty much to itself as early as our third year – that was after that poor girl was found in the bathroom – and by the time we left it was rarer to see the houses mixing. I suppose Dippet was already slipping, though nobody really noticed until '56, poor man."

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Mrs. Nokes announced, pushing her chair back from the table. "I very much fear that I have an appointment with a book dealer, and much as I have enjoyed this chat, I really do need to be going. If you will excuse me."

The Dowd sisters also had plans for the afternoon, and the luncheon group broke up at that point. Harry and his friends went back upstairs to sort out what they'd learned.

"What made you ask about Gobstones?" Ron demanded as soon as they were back in Harry's rooms. "That was brilliant! I was going to ask about What's-His-Name. Why'd you stop me?"

"I remembered about the article Hermione found, the one that said Eileen Prince was captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones team. The article talked about competitions with other schools, too, but somehow I never really thought about it. I wonder what happened to all those other schools."

"Hermione could look it up. What about Voldemort?"

Harry became very serious. "I don't think they would connect Voldemort with their school mate Tom Riddle. When we get to that point, we have to ask about Riddle. I was afraid you were going to say Voldemort or You-Know-Who and confuse things."

"I was," Ron confessed. "Good thing you're keeping an eye on me."

"Why are we doing this?" Hermione asked suddenly. "If we were still trying to destroy Voldemort, it would make sense, but Voldemort's gone. He's not coming back. Why don't we leave it alone?"

"I don't have a good answer for you," Harry said, walking away from her and looking out his window in the direction of what he knew was Hyde Park. "First, I have a flask full of memories. Memories of a man I hated for seven years, who was murdered in front of me, and then I found out that he was someone else, someone I never had a chance to meet, a friend of my mother's. What am I supposed to do with those memories, Hermione? Stick them back into the closet like a jacket that doesn't fit anymore? Pour them into the ocean? Give the flask to a museum so they can be preserved like a mummy for the next two thousand years?"

Turning, Harry saw that Hermione eyes had widened in shock. "Of course not!" she cried. "That would be like throwing them away! You can't…" She stared down at the flask. "What are we going to do with them?"

"There's more," Harry continued. "I never knew my parents. I never had anyone really talk to me about my parents – some things, yes, but never in any detail. Now I have something. This morning I heard my mother's voice. I heard her laugh. I know there's lots of people in the world who never heard their mother laugh…"

"Voldemort didn't," Ron said suddenly.

Harry glared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it. His mum died when he was born. Did he ever see a picture of her even? And the first time he saw his own dad, it was to kill him. He didn't have a great family life either."

"Ron, I don't think Harry needs to be reminded of the similarities between him and Voldemort."

"No," Harry insisted. "I do. Just a little bit ago, I stopped Ron from asking the ladies about Voldemort. How did I know he was going to do that? I could see it. I'm a legilimens. I got it from Voldemort just like I got the Parseltongue. I didn't lose that when he died. Maybe I can still talk to snakes, too. I need to know how much of Voldemort is still inside me, and I'm not giving up a tool that could help me do that."

All three were silent for a minute, then Ron spoke in a tentative voice, "D' you think we should have a birthday party?"

"What a silly idea!" said Hermione. "I can't even imagine Professor Snape at a party."

"Maybe it's about time he had one," Harry chuckled. "Hang on." He hurried downstairs and returned a few minutes later with gingerbread and pumpkin juice. These he laid out on the table, then opened the flask. "I'd like to see another birthday," he said, and removed a memory…

It was night, and a very young Professor Snape was moving around in the Potions office. He didn't seem to be doing anything in particular – just idly picking things up and putting them down again. Every once in a while he glanced toward one side of the office where the fireplace was. Harry went over to investigate.

Tucked into a space next to the hearth was a small table. On it, most prominently, was a black and white muggle photograph of a man and a woman with a little boy on the promenade at Blackpool. Harry recognized all three from the first flask memory, and from his glimpse into Snape's mind during occlumency lessons. In the picture they were all smiling. It was clear that the adult Snape had gotten his hair and the shape of his face from his mother, his nose, eyes, and chin from his father.

On either side of this picture were two others, both of older women. One was a muggle photograph of a short, pleasant-looking woman in a cloth coat standing in front of a small, working class cottage. The other was a more regal lady with her hair in a bun at the back of her head, standing in a garden. This last picture was a wizard's photograph, and the woman moved around, tending her flowers and herbs.

Lying in front of the pictures, in a place of honor, was a small scrap of paper with two words written on it – _Lake tonight_. Harry knew the handwriting. He'd seen it in the letter he'd found at Grimmauld Place after Dumbledore died. It was his mother's writing.

Snape paused. With the air of having reached a decision, he took a cloak from a hook on the wall, threw it over his robes, and left the office. Harry and his friends followed. They went up the dungeon stairs and across the entrance hall, not too fast and not too slow, and Snape opened the great oaken doors and slipped outside.

Hermione gasped, for they had entered a dazzling midnight world of full moon and white snow. It was beautiful, silent and serene, cold, pristine, and peaceful. Snape paused to take a deep breath and look around.

The light snow on the lawn was marked with paths trodden by students during the day, and Snape, the three friends behind him, followed the widest of these to the edge of the hill where the road led down to the Hogsmeade gate, the Quidditch pitch, and Hagrid's hut. There was a light in Hagrid's window, and Harry could see him moving around inside the hut.

Turning back, Snape retraced his steps, but instead of going back into the castle, he veered left toward the cliff face. There was a path there that led down to the lake, the light of the moon making it clear and easy to follow. Snape wound his way down to the narrow lake shore, pausing for a moment to look at a large rock set back from the little beach, and then walking to the edge of the frozen lake. The ice was crossed and swirled with the tracks of skates, moonlight glinting from crystals strewn up when the students raced and glided over its surface in their free periods during the day.

Snape stood there for a long time, even though it was clearly very cold, then he turned and walked back to the rock. Instead of sitting on the rock itself, he brushed the snow away from a patch of dead grass and sat huddled next to it, his cloak pulled around him, his fingers tucked under his arms to protect them from the biting cold. After a couple of minutes, he pulled out his wand, waved it, and in a slightly hoarse voice said, _"Incendio."_ A fire glowed near his feet, very brightly at first, then subsiding into soft flickers. Snape watched the dancing flames, and his head began to nod. Soon he was dozing, and eventually the fire died.

"Professor," Hermione said, softly at first. "Professor, wake up. You can't stay here. You'll die."

"He can't hear you," Harry reminded her. "There's nothing we can do. Besides, look how young he is. This must be ten years before we started school. Clearly he isn't going to die."

"This is daft," said Ron. "Who in his right mind would come out here on a night like this?"

"I think he used to meet my mother here. There was a note in her handwriting on that little table. Funny, he had a picture of his parents, and the other two might have been grandmothers or aunts, but there was no picture of my mum. Maybe he didn't have a picture of my mum. Maybe that's why he took the one from Sirius's room."

Harry walked over to the edge of the lake. "I wonder what they used to talk about." He turned slowly to take in the glittering crystal beauty of the fairytale world around him – the ice and snow sparkling on the water, the trees, the Whomping Willow, the castle… He and his friends couldn't feel the cold, but Snape could. Or maybe you didn't feel it when you were dying. Harry wondered how long it would be before Snape either woke or someone found him.

A sudden shout from the direction of the Willow answered his question. "What're ya doing, lad? Ya can't sit out here all night! Wake up!" It was Hagrid, charging through the frost and snow to the lakeside. At his approach, Snape roused enough to throw one hand up as if to protect his head from a blow, then Hagrid was shaking him, rubbing his wrists and hands, slapping his face, and dragging him to his feet.

"What the blame-all are ya doing out here?" Hagrid roared as Snape began weakly to resist the rough treatment. "You start moving around, now, get that blood pumping!" Hagrid pulled off his own great coat and wrapped it around Snape's shoulders. "Now move! Walk! I'm right beside ya. We're just going t' my place where there's a good fire and hot tea. I thought I saw ya up there on the hill a bit ago, then the flash when ya lit y'r fire. Then when the fire died, I says, 'Well, he's gone back inside t' bed', but something nagged at me and I says, 'It won't hurt checking.' No, ya can't sit down. Not yet. You just keep moving there."

Snape staggered through the snow, Hagrid supporting him and urging him forward, then up the steps into Hagrid's hut. There he was set before the fire, wrapped in warm blankets with a cup of hot tea in his hands while Hagrid pulled off his shoes to check his feet for frostbite.

"Ya got a cockeyed sense o' gratitude, I'll say that," Hagrid continued as he examined Snape's toes, ears, and fingers. "Here's that Scrimgeour in the castle, just hoping y'll do somewhat t' prove Dumbledore's wrong about ya, and you go and give him just what he needs…"

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," said Snape suddenly.

"Well you was doing a pretty good imitation of it then," Hagrid snapped at him. "What were ya doing?"

"I just needed to go out and… be there. I wanted to feel like she was…" Snape stopped and huddled deeper into the blankets.

"Why'd ya pick such a strange time t' do it in, if ya don't mind my asking."

"It's my birthday. It started at midnight. She always remembered…"

"I know lad. It's gonna be hard."

"She was there, Hagrid. She was talking to me. Just before you came and woke me up."

Hagrid sat back on his heels. "What'd she tell, you?" he asked.

"Not to give up. Not to let them beat me down. I still have a job to do, a task to perform. Promises, she said."

"You made any promises?"

"To Dumbledore. To her too. So you see, I couldn't have been trying to kill myself."

"But ya did a blame stupid thing, and ya almost died anyway. You got t' be careful. Now stand up, I'm taking ya back t' y'r rooms. And we got t' tell Dumbledore about this."

Snape rose and went with Hagrid up to the castle, and there was a mother hen quality to Hagrid's attentions that said he'd taken care of Snape like this many times before…

"That was depressing!" Ron stated emphatically as soon as the three had taken a moment to catch their breath.

"I thought it was very sad," said Hermione, "but not depressing. Just very sad."

"I'm an idiot!" Harry exclaimed striking his hand against his forehead as the other two turned to stare at him.

"Well we knew that, mate," Ron grinned. "Which particular part of your idiocy are you thinking about right now?"

"Hagrid." Harry started pacing, a habit Ron and Hermione were beginning to get used to. "I can't count. If I could count, I'd have realized it long ago. Hagrid was expelled from Hogwarts in 1943. It must be because he's a giant, but I don't think of Hagrid as being as old as Voldemort, but he is, just about. He said Dumbledore let him 'stay on' as gamekeeper, but Dumbledore wasn't headmaster then. He became headmaster in 1970. It doesn't matter. Either Dumbledore helped him get the job while Professor Dippet was still headmaster, or it happened right after Dumbledore became headmaster. My parents and Snape didn't start at Hogwarts until 1971."

Harry looked at the waiting faces of his friends. "Don't you see? When Hagrid kept telling us that Snape could be trusted, that he was loyal to Dumbledore, I was thinking that he knew Snape from the time Snape started teaching in 1981. But he knew Snape when Snape was a kid – an eleven-year-old just sorted. Hagrid may even have known when Snape left Voldemort and started working for Dumbledore. He even said so – about Scrimgeour wanting to prove Dumbledore wrong. And he knew about my mother. Snape didn't say her name, but Hagrid knew who he was talking about."

"Of course!" Hermione cried. "That's why he showed us that birthday! You asked for a birthday, and you got one, but it wasn't chosen to make us feel sorry for him. It was chosen to show us how close he and Hagrid were. Which means there's someone else who can tell you about your parents!"

"Well why didn't he do it before?" Ron asked. "We've been close to Hagrid for nearly eight years now. Why didn't he talk about it before?"

"I understand that now," Harry said. "He would have had to betray Professor Snape's confidence. The professor didn't want me to know, so neither Dumbledore nor Hagrid could tell me anything that would bring him into it. I guess Hagrid just kept quiet because once he starts talking…"

"He doesn't know when to stop," Ron laughed. "How about some gingerbread? How old would he be today, anyway?"

"That's easy," said Hermione. "They were born in January 1960 – Harry and I saw that on his mother's tombstone – so today is Professor Snape's thirty-ninth birthday." She paused. "Odd that I never thought about him as being so young."

Harry poured and handed around glasses of pumpkin juice, and divided the gingerbread between them. He raised his glass. "Happy birthday, Professor Snape," he said.

"Happy birthday, Professor Snape," Ron and Hermione chorused, and all three drank the toast.

"So," said Hermione. "Now what? Do we have a purpose, or are we going to treat this as if it's just a form of mild entertainment?"

"I have a purpose," said Harry. "It's to find out as much about my parents and my past as I can. I know it's not on a par with saving the wizarding world, but it's important to me."

"Does old Snape have a family?" Ron asked.

"I don't think so," said Harry. "When he was talking to Professor Dumbledore about Professor Lupin, he said he was the last Snape and the last Prince."

"That's two out of four," said Hermione. When Harry and Ron gave her puzzled looks, she went on. "Everyone has four grandparents. It sounds like Professor Snape didn't have any cousins on the Snape or Prince side, but what about his grandmothers? They came from two other families. He might have second cousins or something there. Maybe if we found them, we could give the Professor's memories to them."

"I don't know," said Harry. "What if they didn't really know anything about him? What if they don't care?"

"Even so," Hermione said, "that could be another task. We could look for exactly the right thing to do with the professor's memories."

"Maybe he wants them dumped in the ocean," Ron suggested.

"That," said Hermione, "is something we have to find out."

"Good," said Harry. "I find information about my parents, we try to find out if there's something he wants done with the memories, and I'll also try to find out if there's anything about Voldemort that we still need to worry about. I'm going to talk some more to Mrs. Nokes and the sisters."

Neither Ron nor Hermione could spare any more time from work or study, so they finished the food and left, promising to return the following Saturday. Both said a polite goodbye to the flask as well as to Harry, and none of them felt it to be in the least strange.

At dinner that evening, Harry didn't bring up the subject of Hogwarts, not wanting to push his luck. The Dowd sisters, however, did it for him.

"Mr. Ashbrook," Arwella asked while they all were eating the soup course, "you were at St. Taflan's weren't you?"

"Class of '45," replied the author. "Excellent year. Grindelwald was beaten, and so was Hogwarts."

"I beg your pardon?" said Harry.

"Quidditch. We won that year. Last time, too. Games were discontinued… when was it? Fifty-six? Fifty-seven?"

"Why were they discontinued? It seems like a good tradition?"

"Mostly because of Hogwarts, as I understand it. Headmaster was going a little funny, and the Deputy had to step into the breach. Things a bit confused and all. Supposed to be temporary, but you know how it goes." Ashbrook devoted his attention to the soup, not being as interested in decades-old school history.

Harry tried to think of a way to bring up the subject of Tom Riddle, but was unsuccessful. Then he thought of asking about Grindelwald, but the conversation had shifted to the Ministry's new policy of asking for detailed employment history since 1981, and the opportunity was lost for that evening. He finished his meal in polite silence, as he often did, then went up to his rooms.

There stood the green flask on the table. It was like a drug addiction. Just one more for today, Harry thought. That's all, just one more…

He was at Hogwarts again, standing in the entrance hall looking up at the grand marble staircase. A horde of students was coming down the stairs, and by the look of their faces and the occasional yawn, Harry figured it was for breakfast. One of them, chatting with two friends as they descended, was Harry's mother. She looked about twelve years old. One of the friends nudged her and giggled.

Harry turned. Standing slightly behind one of the suits of armor flanking the front doors was Severus. He looked smaller than usual, as if shrinking into himself so that he would be less noticeable. He was watching Lily in a sideways manner, looking out of the corner of an eye. Without a word or a glance, he left the shelter of the armor and headed away from the Great Hall, down the classroom corridor opposite, and then out the side door into the courtyard. Unable to stay where Severus no longer was, Harry followed him.

Except for the boy, the courtyard appeared empty – not unusual during breakfast. Severus sat on the wall under the arcading of the cloistered walk, watching the door from which he'd just exited. Five minutes later, Lily appeared. She was carrying some food wrapped up in napkins and a glass of pumpkin juice.

"I knew you wouldn't think to bring any breakfast, so I brought some for you," she told Severus, setting the glass and the napkin on the wall next to him. "There's plenty to eat, but we'll have to share the glass. I couldn't carry two."

"I'm not… hungry," Severus said. He looked neither at the food nor at her face, but down at the stone pavement of the courtyard.

Lily contemplated his profile. "What happened?" she asked. "You wouldn't look at me at the feast or in Potions class. Now you won't eat."

"Nothing… happened."

"Don't be like this. I didn't seen you all summer, and now you're doing the same thing you always used to. Are you angry with me? It's not my fault we moved to Surrey."

Severus looked at her then. "Angry with… you? I could never be… angry with you. You're my… best friend."

She handed him a piece of toast, and he took and bit into it. "Now," Lily said firmly, "tell me what happened in Slytherin house."

"Nothing… happened in Slytherin… house. They just like to… talk."

"Right. Like all your parents ever did was argue. You can't fool me anymore, Sev. I know your dad hits you, so I don't believe that all they do in Slytherin is talk. What's wrong?"

"I as… sociate with the wrong… people. I have to… stick to my house."

"It's me, isn't it? Well I'm not leaving you to face them alone. We'll figure out some way so that they don't catch us. Then they'll stop bothering you, All right?" He nodded, and she continued. "Now, tell me about your summer…"

A rustle of movement in the cloistered shadows behind and to his right caught Harry's attention just then. As he turned to see what it was, a familiar sardonic voice said, "Lonely for Miss Weasley, Potter? Is that what makes other people's tête-à-têtes so fascinating?"

Leaning casually against the pillar of one arch, his arms folded across his chest, was Professor Snape.

Harry staggered back a step. "What are you doing here?" he stammered.

"Really Potter, you are taking this obsessive reputation for obtuseness too far. You have noticed, I am sure, that this is my brain. The question is, what are you doing here?"

"You're dead!" Harry cried, not knowing what else to say.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "_Cogito, ergo sum_. The very fact that I am aware of my own existence, not to mention yours, is rather persuasive proof that I am not. I repeat, what are you doing here?"

"No, I'm serious, eh… sir. You died. Just before you died, you wanted to tell me something, so you gave me your memories. Hermione caught them in a flask. That's what we're doing here, sir. We're in a pensieve."

Snape straightened himself and stepped away from the pillar, unfolding his arms. "You are being tiresome, Potter. I think I would know if I were dead. Or rather, I wouldn't know. If I were dead and you observing me in a pensieve, I would be utterly unaware of you. A blessed condition, I assure you, and one which, at this moment, I deeply desire."

Harry thought quickly. "What if I can prove it's a pensieve?"

"How would you go about doing that?"

With a glance over his shoulder, Harry indicted the two children still talking about their summer. "Why are you watching them?" he asked.

"Them?" Snape's eyes glittered in anger. "I am watching myself. This happens to be a memory of mine. I am remembering. It's something people do."

"Change the memory."

"Why?"

"Try to think of something else. Go to another memory. Leave this memory and go to another one."

Snape's eyes narrowed now as he glared at Harry, but he was silent. After a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he took another step toward Harry, his wand slipping into his right hand from his sleeve. "What are you doing? What curse is this?"

"This memory's in a pensieve. The others are in a flask. You could move between them before because you were in the flask with them, but now you're isolated in a pensieve, and you can't touch them. Now, watch me."

With that, Harry left the memory and resurfaced in his own front room. He stared down at the pensieve where Snape's memory floated. The silver filament had changed to a dull red color. _I hope that just means he's angry,_ Harry thought. _I hope that doesn't mean I've damaged something._

He dove into the pensieve again. Once again he was in the Great Hall watching his mother walk down the stairs. Once again he followed young Severus into the courtyard. This time, however, instead of watching the boy and girl, he went over to the cloistered walk where Snape was standing. "Well?" he said.

"You disappeared," said Snape. "The memory rewound itself. It proves nothing."

"Try leaving. Try leaving like I did."

The anger and irritation on Snape's face slowly changed to a mixture of fury and fear as he tried. Suddenly he lifted his wand, and Harry went for his as well before he realized what Snape was doing. "No!" Harry yelled as Snape twisted and disapparated.

At least he tried to disapparate. Instead of making him disappear, the spell flung Snape up against an invisible barrier, and he collapsed back down on the flagstones in an awkward heap. Harry ran over to help him to his feet, but Snape shoved him aside and tried again to disapparate with the same result.

_"Desino captivitatem!"_ Snape screamed with a flourish of his wand. _"Abrumpo catenas! Tollo ergastulum!"_

Harry watched in horror and pity as Snape flung himself again and again at the unseen shell holding him prisoner until at last, exhausted, he sat on the pavement, his head resting on his knees, wand held loosely in his hand.

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

There was a long pause, and then Snape asked, "Who did it?"

"Voldemort."

"Why don't I remember it?"

"I don't know."

Harry sat down on the ground next to Snape. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"I was asleep," Snape said wearily. "At least… I woke up. I was remembering things. Just… remembering."

"Where were you while you were doing this remembering?"

Snape thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "I wasn't really anywhere."

"Do you think you've been awake for maybe twenty-four hours?"

"I have no idea."

"While you were remembering, did you remember any of your birthdays?"

Snape shook his head. "Why do you ask?"

"That's what I was looking at. Of course, if I was looking at it, and you weren't in the pensieve, you wouldn't be able to see it."

There was movement on the other side of the courtyard, as Lily and Severus said goodbye and left for their common rooms. Harry watched them go, and then turned back to Snape. Snape wasn't there. The courtyard wasn't there. Harry was back in his front room.

"Drat," Harry said to the four walls. "It lasts as long as the memory." He checked the time – it was a quarter after eight. Frustrated but determined, Harry plunged back into the pensieve.

Snape was waiting for him in the entrance hall. "It looks like you don't control this either," he said at Harry's side after Harry fell into the scene. "What's happening out there? You said the Dark Lord killed me. Where is he?"

"He's dead, too," Harry replied. "You did that. I was hiding and saw him attack you, but he left while you were still alive. Barely. You saw me and gave me your memories. It was Hermione who thought how to preserve them. I put them into a pensieve and saw Professor Dumbledore explaining to you what I had to do to defeat Voldemort. I followed his instructions. Voldemort's dead."

"Thank goodness for that," said Snape.

"Tell me, sir," said Harry. "What do you remember?"

That turned out to be a difficult question. After considerable thought, Snape said, "There are some things that I know. I know who Voldemort is, who Dumbledore and Hermione are, but I wasn't aware of them until you mentioned them, and then I knew. I remember the things I've seen… recently."

"All of them?" Harry asked. "Could you tell me about them?"

"Most of them are from Hogwarts. Teaching and such things." Snape concentrated for a minute or two. "I do not remember my childhood at all. There are things I know, like the name of the street where I lived, but I do not remember the street."

"Listen," Harry exclaimed, "do you have any control over what you remember?"

"I don't know. Up until you arrived, I was just remembering. There didn't seem to be any pattern."

"I don't want to lose you," Harry explained, "but I can't keep you trapped in the pensieve because… well it wouldn't be right, and besides you wouldn't have access to the information I want. But if I can't contact you again, or you me, then… We need to try something."

"I am open to suggestions," Snape said, though he was clearly wary of any suggestion coming from Harry.

"I'm going to put this memory back into the flask," Harry said, "and then I'm going to try to get it back. You see if you can keep it at the top of all the other memories."

"I have no idea how to do that," said Snape. "I shall, however, remain in this memory, if I can, and concentrate on it. Good luck."

Harry left the memory and, once back in his front room, returned the filament to the flask. It swirled and twisted, and became indistinguishable from the others. Holding his breath, Harry took his wand and fished out the memory thread on the surface of the mass. He could not tell, just looking at it, if it was the same one…

Snape was waiting for him in the entrance hall. "That seems to have worked," he said.

"Great!" said Harry. "Now I'm leaving again. Find another memory and concentrate on that one. Let's see if it goes to the top."

This time Harry waited for nearly five minutes in his room before he snagged the uppermost strand of thought from the flask and put it in the pensieve. Crossing his fingers, he dove in. He found himself in a schoolroom full of small children, the teacher writing addition problems on a blackboard.

"Well," said Snape's voice at his elbow, "that seems to have worked, too."

"What's this?" Harry asked.

"I apologize, Potter. We've obviously gotten too advanced for you. This is a school."

It was Harry's turn to face Snape, eyes narrowed in irritation. "I know that! What are we doing… You went to a muggle school?"

"Bravo, Potter. Got it in one. Of course, I seem to recall that you did as well."

Harry's ire vanished. "Is my mum…"

"Front. Left hand side." Snape perched himself on a table in the rear where supplies were laid out for drawing while Harry went to the front to look at Lily. She, like the rest of the class, was doing her sums on a sheet of paper with wide lines. Her features were set and still as she concentrated, the locks of her red hair pulled back from her face by a blue headband. After a few moments of watching her pencil carefully forming the circles and lines of the numbers, Harry looked around for the other child, the one with the long curtains of black hair.

That child wasn't there. It took Harry a minute or two to find Severus, in fact, since the Severus in this room had shorter hair that came to his collar and was just long enough in front to reach his eyebrows. Harry noticed that several boys in the room wore their hair the same way. Sitting here in the schoolroom, dressed in the same uniform, the boy looked pretty much like everyone else.

"What year is it?" Harry asked Snape as he walked to the table in the back.

"I imagine it's 1966 or thereabouts," Snape replied. "Not a particularly scintillating year." He shifted as the teacher called for the papers, which were dutifully handed forward to her. She then dismissed the class to the yard to play for fifteen minutes. Lily went out with a couple of friends. Severus went to the far side of the yard by himself.

"No mates?" Harry asked as he and Snape watched the children from the doorway into the building.

"Wrong side of town," was Snape's reply.

Harry turned to him. "I have to go now. It's getting late and I need to get to bed. I'll put everything back in the flask so you can have all the memories together. I'll be looking in tomorrow. I'll take whatever's on top, so if you don't want to see me…"

"I'll be sure to hide," Snape finished for him. He said nothing more, not 'goodbye' or 'pleasant dreams' or anything. Harry nodded and left the memory, pouring it carefully into the flask after he was back in his own front room.

xxxxxxxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

_Sunday, January 10, 1999_

The next morning after breakfast, Harry went straight to Diagon Alley. Ron and George were opening up shop, and Harry managed to get Ron to one side to tell him what had happened.

"Snape's in the bottle?" Ron practically shouted halfway through Harry's account. "How creepy is that!"

Harry shushed him. "You don't want the whole street knowing. Besides, I'm not sure he's all there."

"He was never all there," Ron chuckled.

"You know what I mean. He doesn't remember things, things he hasn't revisited. He knows things, like spells and stuff, but he doesn't have the pictures in his head. I guess that's because they're floating around him instead of being inside him. He's remembering – going from image to image."

"He must be pretty slow then," said Ron. "He's had those memories for eight months."

"I don't know about that," Harry's face was grave. "I had the flask replaced last week. No one wanted to touch a flask full of memories except one apothecary in Knockturn Alley. He had it for forty-eight hours, so he might have done something to wake Snape up. When he gave me the new flask on Friday, he knew who was in it, whose thoughts they were."

"Maybe he could give us some information."

"I don't know that I want to go back there."

Ron arranged for Hermione to meet them in Diagon Alley for lunch, then spent the morning handling the busy Sunday trade, weekends being more profitable for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes than working days. When Hermione arrived, Harry took his two friends to a muggle restaurant not far from the Leaky Cauldron where they would be less likely to be overheard by someone who would understand what they were talking about.

"Let me get this straight," Hermione said after Harry recounted his experience of the night before. "There's someone in that flask that you can talk to, who can see you, and who seems to be Professor Snape minus his memories."

"Yeah, basically," said Harry. "What should we do about it?"

"First," Hermione said, "we have to find a way to be sure it's really Professor Snape. For all we know, it could be some sort of doppelganger or evil twin reflection of him. Who was the apothecary who transferred the memories?"

"The shop is called 'Gills and Drams,'" Harry told her. "But he, Snape, didn't seem evil. Just his usual nasty self."

"Evil people don't succeed because they seem evil. They succeed because they're able to appear good. Though still being nasty is a good sign. I'd be more suspicious if he tried to be too nice."

"I'm still trying to figure out how Snape can be inside the bottle," Ron said. "And why he didn't know he was dead."

"That's easy," said Hermione, "assuming it really is Professor Snape, of course. The only thing in the flask are the memories that he gave Harry there in the Shack. But he gave them while he was still alive. I mean, he didn't die in the act of giving the memories, did he? So that last memory, the memory of everything stopping, that's not in there with the others. He may find the memory of being bitten by Nagini, but that'll end with him giving you thoughts, not with death."

Harry shook his head. "This complicates things a lot," he said. "It means we're dealing with a person who's alive."

"I don't know if you can use the word 'person' for someone who doesn't have a body," Ron pointed out.

"But what are we," Hermione asked, "except the sum of all our experiences? And how else do we carry those experiences with us except in our memories?" She turned to Harry. "Didn't you say he wasn't even aware that he wasn't… didn't have a body anymore?"

"Practically the first thing he said was he asked what I was doing inside his brain. Like I was performing some special legilimency probe or something."

"It's not a whole brain, of course," Hermione continued. "It's missing the bits that make your heart beat or your lungs breathe. But it does have the memories, and it seems to have the personality and the thinking skills. If it's Snape, is it really Snape, or is it just a shadow of him… like watching a movie?"

"What's that?"

"Honestly, Ron. Now, this gives us a bigger problem. If that's really Professor Snape in there – with his memories, his personality, his ability to reason – then destroying the flask or what's in it would be the same thing as committing murder."

"Could we put him back in his body?" Ron asked. "Then he'd be a whole person again."

"That's who that woman was!" Harry exclaimed suddenly. When the other two stared at him, he explained. "The first memory I watched, when he was five, there was a woman who seemed to be a friend of the family. She was a lot younger, and I didn't recognize her, but I think she was there at his funeral. When he was buried."

"And that was eight months ago," said Hermione. "We are not going into any detail about what happens to a dead body over the course of eight months. I don't think that's an option."

Harry started tracing invisible figures on the table top with the handle of his fork. "He thinks he's alive. _Cogito, ergo sum_, that's what he told me."

"I think, therefore I am." Hermione sighed. "I don't know if that's ever been used to prove the legal existence of a brain that didn't have a body anymore. The bottom line is that we're not just dealing with a flask of memories. We're dealing with the memories plus a separate consciousness that's self aware and has a personality. We've got to find out what it is and how it got into that flask. Harry, you have to talk to that apothecary in Knockturn Alley."

"What am I supposed to tell him?"

Hermione had no answer and was silent.

Ron was not silent. "Don't tell him anything. Accuse him. Accuse him of tampering with the memories, of stealing them. Put him on the defensive. Go in there shouting about reporting him to the Ministry for… for… damaging historical archives or… something."

Harry laughed. "That's not a bad idea, Ron. You want to back me up?"

"It'd be better if George backed you up. He can keep a straight face when he's pulling a gag like that. I can't."

"That would mean we'd have to let George in on the secret," Harry said. "If we bring in too many people, it won't be a secret anymore."

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?" asked Hermione. "I mean, if that really is Professor Snape, what right have we got to keep him all to ourselves, like he was a pet or a toy?"

It was a question none of them was prepared to answer at that moment. Hermione went back home to study, while Harry accompanied Ron to the Weasley joke shop.

About an hour later, Harry and George Weasley entered Knockturn Alley and made their way to the 'Gills and Drams' apothecary shop. George had changed out of his usual garb into something more official, as befitted the role he was about to play. Both his solid, stocky build, and the fact that he'd lost an ear in a battle, gave him the air of a fighter, and people in the alley stood aside to let him pass.

There were two customers in the apothecary shop when Harry and George entered. Both paid quickly and left. The apothecary smiled grimly. "Afternoon, Weasley. You buying or…" he glanced at Harry, "you got a problem."

"Afternoon, Grindstone," said George, picking up a display scale and examining it minutely. The apothecary came out from behind the counter to take it away from him and put it back on the shelf.

"What you want, Weasley?"

"I happen to be here today representing my father," said George. "You know about my father. Ministry? Misuse of artifacts? The occasional raid?"

"Yeah. I know about him. I don't carry nothing muggle."

"Ah," George continued blandly, "then you would be completely uninterested in the fact that my father frequently has lunch with Mafalda Hopkirk and Johnson Pilliwickle. You know them of course. Improper Use of Magic Office. Bureau of Magical Equipment Control…"

"I done nothing improper."

"The exact citation is, I believe, Article 37, Paragraph 9, which refers to the tampering with or theft of a customer's property, brought to you for legitimate service…"

"You got a lot of nerve coming into my shop like this, Weasley. I ain't never…"

"I love it when you get all huffy on me, Grindstone. It makes my job so much more fun."

The apothecary paused, then he nodded at Harry. "I gave him back his property. Did he tell you what it was? Dead man's memories to sort. All of them. Ask him why he's carrying around something like that."

"Do you read _The Daily Prophet?_ I'm sure you do. You knew whose memories those were, and you knew this young man had nothing to do with his death."

"What's he bringing them to me for? Here? Why you ain't sorting them in the Ministry?"

George smiled winningly. "It takes a special touch. He was a customer of yours, wasn't he? Unofficially, of course. For a long time. You watched him grow up, didn't you? Young student, buying snake venom. Somewhat older wizard purchasing banshee blood. Mature professor checking on the supply of harpy heartstrings… How many wizards can sort out a full memory vial and have the knowledge of the subject to keep the memories straight?"

"I didn't do no tampering!"

"Yes you did," said George. "What was returned to the customer was different from what was given to you for repair. My only problem is determining whether or not it was illegal."

Another customer, a squat older witch with straggling hair and a monstrous wart on her nose, started to enter the shop at that moment. Grindstone quickly ushered her back out with the words, "Come back in an hour," and closed the wooden shutters on the windows, leaving the shop in shadow.

"It wasn't illegal," he hissed at George. "There was something in there more 'n a memory. It was all shredded, like it'd been pulled apart and dumped in careless. It was mixing and stirring everything – agitating, we call it – so 's I couldn't get it to settle proper. I spent all Thursday working at it, and it was give up the job or extract the substance. Not knowing what it was, I tried a catalytic agent. That was Friday morning. By the afternoon, the memories were settled and could be sorted and transferred. I put everything in the new flask. Didn't keep nothing for m' self."

"What catalytic agent did you use," George asked.

"You got a warrant?" Grindstone replied, more sure of himself now and ready to fight.

George knew when to retreat with grace. "Well," he said, turning to Harry. "It's your property and your call to press charges. Do you believe this fellow, that all he did was help the fragments coalesce, or do you think he did something more criminal that damaged your property?"

Harry thought for a moment. "If I trust him now, and find out later there's other things wrong, can I still press charges?"

"Of course."

"Then I think we're through here."

"Nice talking to you Grindstone," George said as he and Harry left. "I'll file a neutral report. If they want to investigate further, someone will call."

The apothecary watched them go, but said nothing, and it was impossible to tell which was stronger, his irritation, or his relief.

Harry agreed to wait until evening before venturing into the pensieve again, so that Ron, Hermione, and George could be with him. He went back to the boarding house to wait, a wait that was pure torture.

_This has to be what drug addiction is like,_ he thought. _Every week I have things that I do on Sunday. Today I can't think of anything else, I don't want anything else… I'm going crazy wondering what more there is to see in that blasted pensieve. Even going out for a walk in Hyde Park didn't really help. What's it going to be like tomorrow, when I have to go to work?_

About half an hour before the others arrived, Harry told Mrs. Purdy he'd be eating in his rooms with some friends, and went for muggle take-out food. Being a wealthy part-blood wizard in Mayfair, he went to Selfridge's food halls and picked out a large assortment of everything that looked or sounded tasty, then apparated back to his lodgings five minutes before the others arrived.

"Nice spread, Harry," George said with enthusiasm, heading straight for the table. "Cook it yourself?"

"Muggle stuff," Harry replied. "Just ordinary muggle stuff."

"I got to pay more attention to muggle food," This sentence was not entirely understandable, since George was talking around a large bit of shepherd's pie. "It's not half bad."

They all took plates and loaded them for the first round of the evening. As the edges of hunger were being worn away, Hermione spoke. "What are we going to ask for this time?"

"Nothing," Harry said. "We sort of agreed that whatever memory he was in, he'd try to keep it at the top. If it works like it did yesterday, he'll be easy to find."

George belched slightly and patted his stomach. "Sounds like a plan. I'm game. Are the rest of you game?"

They were. Harry explained to George what to do, then unstoppered the green coffin ("Wicked," George breathed as his eyes caressed it) and fished out a thread of thought. Instead of putting it directly into the pensieve, he examined it. "The apothecary said the shreds were different from the memories," he told the others. "I was hoping I could see what the difference was." Then he put the strand into the pensieve and dove in…

It was winter at Hogwarts. Professors Snape and McGonagall were standing by one of the first floor windows looking out at the snow. Below them, Gilderoy Lockhart strode by, only to be hit in the head by a bewitched snowball. The two professors were remarking, with considerable admiration, on the finesse of the snowball throwers.

"They liked it?" George crowed. "I was afraid if Professor McGonagall found out, she'd put us on detention!"

"Which is precisely where you should have been most of your days at Hogwarts. The fact that you are not still working out multiple detentions is a tribute to the long-suffering patience of your instructors."

The quartet turned, not surprised to see Professor Snape standing by a classroom door.

"What is this, Potter? A convention?" Snape continued. "It isn't bad enough I have to put up with you, you must bring half Gryffindor house?"

Harry grinned. "And if you're nice to me, sir, maybe next time I'll bring the head of Gryffindor house. Would you like that?"

Snape relaxed a bit, softening around the edges. "I might consider it as a peace offering of sorts," he said. "Now kindly explain what these hooligans are doing here." The words were snide, but somehow the tone didn't quite make it.

"We're – what's the expression? – seizing the day. It's Sunday evening. Tomorrow we go back to work. Don't worry. Monday through Friday you'll have a lot of uninterrupted time."

"Something to look forward to," said Snape. "But why all at once?" He nodded towards George. "At least there's only one. I don't think I could have taken both at…"

He didn't finish, for George, his mood instantly threatening, advanced with clenched fists. "You take that back, you evil prune-faced git!" he roared, Ron at his back, equally infuriated.

Both Harry and Hermione thrust themselves in front of the Weasley brothers. "He didn't mean it!" Harry shouted. "He doesn't know! He died before he found out!"

George stopped, breathing heavily. Ron stopped, too, though he danced like a featherweight in the ring. "Found out what?" George snapped.

"Found out what?" Snape echoed, staring at Harry. "What didn't I find out?"

"Professor…" Hermione began gently, but Harry pushed past her.

"Fred Weasley's dead, sir. He died the same night you did, at the Battle of Hogwarts."

There was a very long pause. Then, "I'm sorry," said Snape. "I didn't know."

Another pause and, "That's all right. You got me good, though," said George.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My ear. You took it off."

"Oh, that. I was aiming at the Death Eater who was trying to kill you. I missed."

George watched Snape shrewdly. "Something you remember?"

"Something I know. I don't see it. I just know it."

"Explain to me," said George quietly, "the difference between knowing and remembering. I'm having a bit of trouble getting it."

There was another long pause, during which Harry looked around at his friends rather than at Snape. He was disturbed by the vague atmosphere of a hunt, as if they were waiting for the pensieve Snape to make a mistake.

Snape cleared his throat. "Let's imagine that you're walking down a street, and you suddenly see Miss Granger. Do you start remembering every time you spoke to her and what you said, or does some part of your mind just say, 'I know that girl, it's Hermione'?"

George looked around at the others, then smiled. "Point taken. I just know it's Hermione. If need be, I remember what I just told her. If not, I just know who it is. Do you know what you told her?"

"Not yet," Snape said. "I'm at the 'I know who that is' stage.' Given time, I may get to the 'why I know who that is' stage. I'm sorry about your brother." He turned to Harry. "Who else died?"

Harry glanced past him, not wanting to meet the black eyes. "I don't think you need to know that yet," he said.

"I think I do," said Snape. "Who else died?"

"Professor Lupin," said Hermione. "And Nymphadora Tonks, his wife."

"My student," said Snape. He looked around, but there was no place to sit down. He tried opening one of the classroom doors, but either the door handle or his fingers were not solid enough to manipulate it. Suddenly he was gone.

"Professor!" Harry cried. "Wait!"

Behind them, memory McGonagall and Snape finished their conversation and split up, she going into her office, and he down the stairs. The memory was finished, and the four students were back in Harry's front room.

"I'm going back," Harry told the others. "You stay here." He fell again into the memory where the two professors would be forever discussing the pranks of the Weasley twins, but there was no personality there, no separate and independent entity. With a sigh, Harry rejoined his friends.

"It's impossible, you know," Hermione pronounced as they all took seconds for stage two of their meal. She waved a chicken leg for emphasis. "There's one memory floating in that pensieve. He can't leave it because there's no place else for him to go. Where is he?"

"I want to know why he couldn't open that door," said Ron, also working on a piece of chicken. "After all, that's his world, isn't it?"

"No," said Harry. "It isn't. People don't live in pensieves, they just visit them. He's like us. He can look at the memory, but he's not part of it." It was a depressing thought. Harry put down his fork, no longer hungry. "If he's like us in there, he can't even leave the area of the memory. I imagine in that last one, he wasn't free to wander around Hogwarts. He had to stay there on the first floor where Professor McGonagall and his memory self were. It's quite a prison."

George got up and started to examine the pensieve. "He'll be back," he said confidently. "If we're the only ones he can talk to, he'll be back. I wonder who bothered him more, Fred, Lupin, or Tonks."

"Lupin, I imagine," said Hermione, joining him. "Lupin was part of his past, his schooldays. Lily, Sirius, Harry's father, Lupin… I wonder if he knows Wormtail is dead, too."

"I can see how our next conversation with him is going to be real cheerful," said George. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Harry asked. He'd gone to look out the window at the dark winter sky.

"That funny gray smudge in the bottom of the pensieve."

Harry went over to look where George was pointing. It wasn't a smudge. It was a tiny, pearl-gray mist, wound tightly into a circle, almost hidden under the gossamer silver memory.

Harry took out his wand. "You don't have to enter a memory to look at it," he explained. "That's only if you want to examine it really closely. You can watch it from outside, too." He eased his wand into the bowl and under the silver mist to touch the gray one. _"Ostendo,"_ he said.

The mist unfolded, unwound itself, and a miniature Snape was standing over the pensieve. He looked around in bewilderment, then focused on Harry. Rage suffused his face. "What do you think you're doing, Potter!" he demanded. "Put me back!"

"I want to talk to you," Harry said.

"And I don't want to talk to you! Put me back!"

"I don't have to do what you tell me, sir. I'm the one in charge."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, but Harry held up a hand to silence her.

"No, Potter," said Snape viciously. "you have power. Power is not authority. I'm not your plaything, and I'm not your slave. You have no right…"

"Okay, so I won't talk to you, I'll talk at you. You still have to listen because I don't want you to die again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were outside the memory, but you were still in the pensieve. I can't put you safely back into the flask with all the other memories until you reenter that one. So if you don't want to talk to me, you have to go back into the memory so I can return you to the flask."

Snape studied Harry's face, then slowly rotated above the surface of the pensieve. "What flask?" he asked. "Where is it? What kind of jail do you have me in?" His eyes lit on the emerald coffin. "Silas Grindstone," he said softly. "You took me to Silas Grindstone."

"I did," Harry admitted. "Is there something special about that bottle? Besides the obvious?"

"From the first moment I stepped into his shop, I coveted that flask. It was far too expensive, and it became a joke between us. You must have paid a hefty number of galleons to get that one."

"Not really," said Harry. "No more than I would for any… You mean it's not glass?"

"Chrome diopside," Snape replied. "Not itself a particularly expensive gem, but found naturally only as small stones. To get one that large must have involved some special power at the time of its formation. I never did find out how someone like Grindstone got his hands on it." He rotated back to face Harry. "The ancients believed that diopside housed living spirits. I imagine old Grindstone got quite a chuckle out of this. You should thank him for me."

"I will," Harry promised. "Do you want to go back in, or would you prefer to stay and talk?"

Snape twisted around in the narrow shaft of mist. "Is this where you're living now? I would have thought you'd go for something more palatial. And a feast. At least the remains of one. How nice."

"Are you hungry, Professor?" Ron asked. "There's plenty here."

"Hunger requires a physical stomach, Weasley. I'm sure you've noticed. I will admit, though, that it is a bit frustrating to stand behind myself in the Great Hall and be unable to taste the food."

"Maybe if we were holding some when we came into one of the memories, you could eat it," Ron suggested. "It would be the same as you then, wouldn't it?"

"An interesting thought. Let's not try it just this minute, shall we?" Facing Harry again, Snape said, "I am weary, Potter. I should like to go now. I would, however, appreciate it if you would tell me who else has died. It is probably better to know the worst at once rather than have it keep popping up at awkward moments as a surprise."

They went through the list: Lupin, Tonks, and Fred; Colin Creevey, Vincent Crabbe; name after name of the fifty who'd died in the battle, those they could remember, some little more than names to them, but all either students or colleagues, from both sides, of Snape's. When they finally reached the end, Harry paused. "And Bella Lestrange," he said quietly.

Snape's face was completely impassive. "I'd like to go now," he whispered.

"Right," said Harry. He touched the small figure with his wand, and it broke into wisps of vapor that seemed to evaporate into the silver cloud below. When the two were mixed and indistinguishable from each other, he unstoppered the flask, lifted the thread on his wand, and returned it to the others.

The four in the room were somber. "That's got to be rough," said George. "Can't talk to anyone, can't touch anyone, can't go outside the memory, can't eat… Who'd choose an existence like that?"

"He didn't choose it," said Harry. "All he wanted to do was pass me a message."

Hermione, and the Weasley brothers returned to their respective homes for the night while Harry cleaned up and stored the leftover food in his tiny refrigerator. Then he got ready for bed. He tried not to think of the pensieve, and was tired enough so that he fell asleep rather quickly.

Archimedes brought the Monday morning _Prophets_ – four of the boarders subscribed – to the dining room during breakfast the next day. Most of the news was very dull, leading Harry to ponder the paradox that for the news media, peace and prosperity were the greatest of ill fortune. Then he remembered what Ron had said the day before, snagged a sweet roll, poured a bit of coffee into a mug, and raced upstairs.

_I have to try to contact him,_ Harry thought, staring at the pensieve. _What if he wants to talk to me? He has no way to communicate that. I have to check every day just in case. If he doesn't, he can stay away from the top. If he does, I can be there for him._

With the ethical problem so easily solved, Harry placed a memory in the pensieve, then picked up the roll, the coffee, and the newspaper and, balancing them carefully, dropped into Snape's world.

He found himself in, of all places, the Quidditch field. More specifically, he found himself at one side of the Quidditch field, watching as a rather youthful Madam Hooch released the Quaffle. There wasn't a single recognizable student in the crowd, though he thought he knew most of the teachers. _Why here?_ he wondered.

"It's going to be a very long game," came Snape's voice at Harry's side. "Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff, December 1985. The Seekers are going to collide fifteen minutes into the game and knock each other out. By the time they come to and are fit to play again, it will be four-thirty-seven in the afternoon, and the score will be Ravenclaw 310 and Hufflepuff 270. If you look carefully at the Gryffindor stands, you'll see a very young Bill and Charlie Weasley. Nymphadora Tonks is twelve, and is in the Hufflepuff stands with yellow and black hair."

Harry looked carefully and picked out his three friends. It was odd to think of Tonks as still alive and so young. "I brought you something," he told Snape, and held out the food.

"You seem to have forgotten," Snape said bitterly. "The disembodied don't eat. The need for nourishment has been dispensed with."

"People don't eat just for nourishment," Harry countered. "They eat to be sociable, and they eat because the food tastes good. You can't eat the food here, and you can't eat the food outside, but when I come in here I become like you, and maybe the food I bring does, too. Think of it as an experiment."

Snape's features wore a very studied expression of skepticism as he reached for the mug of coffee and gingerly took a sip.

"Well?" said Harry.

"You might have put a little sugar into it," Snape replied. He took another sip. "A decent French roast, though." He accepted the proffered sweet roll, noted the sugar glaze, custard, and cherries, broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. "Quite nice. Would you like some, Potter. You were the one who brought up socializing, after all."

Harry shared half of the pastry with Snape, but let the professor have all the coffee. "That was very thoughtful of you, Potter," Snape said when they'd finished. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir," Harry said and took out the newspaper. "Would you like to look at the _Prophet_ while I finish getting ready for work? I probably shouldn't leave things here, so I'll be back in a bit to get it."

In his own rooms, Harry brushed his teeth, tried to comb his hair, made the bed, put on his cloak, and then reentered the pensieve. Snape was still reading the newspaper. He was apparently reading not only every word of every article, but all the advertisements and the gossip column. Harry didn't have the heart to take it away from him.

"How would you feel about coming to work with me?"

Snape looked up from the newspaper. "The Ministry of Magic?" he said. "I'd die of boredom." There was a pause while Harry's mouth twitched, and then Snape added, "If I wasn't dead already, of course."

"You'd be no worse off there than you would here," Harry pointed out, "and maybe a deal better. I'd bring the flask and the pensieve, so you could float around in memories if you wanted, or you could come out and talk if you wanted. At least there you'd have an option."

"And a change of scenery," Snape said. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I consent to being taken to the Ministry of Magic. When do we leave?"

"Now," said Harry. He took the newspaper, exited the pensieve, put the memory strand back in the flask, and packed flask and pensieve into his briefcase. Then he carried briefcase, flask, pensieve, and Professor Snape down to the yard behind Mrs. Purdy's desk and apparated to the street outside the Ministry of Magic.

Harry felt like he was smuggling drugs or explosives into the Ministry. He imagined that everyone who said good morning to him was looking suspiciously at his briefcase. He expected at any moment to be hauled down to the interrogation rooms in the Department of Law Enforcement and grilled over his possession of illegal thoughts. It was with some relief that he arrived at his cubicle in his corner of his office and thrust the briefcase under his desk.

As he extracted quills, ink, parchment, requisition forms, deposition forms, confiscation forms, and application for warrant forms from his desk, Harry greeted his fellow workers. Everyone suffered from Monday morning sleepiness, everyone was soon immersed in work, and no one paid any more attention to him.

Harry took out the flask and pensieve and fished out a thread. Checking the area around his cubicle and finding the coast clear, he entered the memory, noting only that it was the entrance hall at Hogwarts, and looked around for Snape. Snape was sitting on the marble staircase.

"I don't have any time or they'll see me," Harry said. "If you want to come out and talk, you'll have to leave the memory so I can see you as a separate strand. If you don't, just stay here." He left immediately, without waiting for a reply.

No one had noticed. Harry let out a deep breath, checked through his inbox, and started working on his forms. It wasn't five minutes before a familiar voice spoke at his side.

"So this is where the Boy Wonder works. And what world-shattering exploits are you planning now, O Chosen One?"

"Shut up!" Harry hissed. "They'll hear you!"

"And that would be a bad thing because…?" Snape prompted, but he did lower his voice.

"For your information," Harry told the miniature image, "I want to sign up for the Auror Field Training Course that begins in September. Meanwhile I have to get a taste of what it's like behind the scenes."

"And why didn't you sign up for the training that began last September?" Snape asked with a smirk. "You were old enough."

"I didn't have any NEWTs. I put in for a waiver, but it took six months to process."

"A likely story," said Snape, then stopped suddenly, listening. "Later," he whispered, and was gone.

Mark Savage stuck his head around the wall of the cubicle. "Potter, I…" He paused, a puzzled frown on his face. "I thought I heard voices," he said. "You're not talking to yourself, are you? That's supposed to come after five years in the field, not before you start training." He studied the papers on Harry's desk. "Good. We're going to need that one in an hour. You be sure it's down to Judicial Review before then. Looks like you're on top of things." He left as quickly as he'd come.

The image of Snape reappeared above the pensieve. "Looks like you're on top of things," he mimicked, but his voice was much softer. "Twit. He's not your boss, is he?"

"He's my supervisor," Harry muttered, exasperated, "and he's writing an evaluation on me for the Auror training, and if you mess…"

"The Chosen One is being evaluated! Still, my beating heart…"

"SHUT UP!" Harry snapped. "I have work to do and not a lot of time to do it in. I swear, if you mess things up I'll… I'll flush you down the toilet!"

Snape's eyes widened in shock, and then suddenly he disappeared. Harry felt a little bit guilty about pushing his advantage in size and power, but at least now he had a chance to work undisturbed. He finished transcribing the notes for the deposition form and had it down to Judicial Review in plenty of time for the hearing. He went back to his cubicle, and to the pensieve, and addressed the little gray mist huddled under the silver fog.

"You can lie there and pout all day if you like, but you know you were wrong and I was right. I had work to do and you were trying to hog my attention. You can't do that. I'll do my best to accommodate your needs, but you have to be aware of mine, too. And I'm sorry about the toilet remark. I'd never flush you down the toilet."

Snape was back almost immediately. "It was," he snapped, "a disgusting remark to make. I am pleased that you have the decency to admit it." He glanced around the desk. "I'm beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming here. Some might find it inspirational. Personally…"

"It wasn't my work I wanted you to see," Harry sighed. "Right now I'm going to dump you back in with the rest of your memories. I was thinking more about where to go during my lunch break. Do you have any ideas?"

"We could go white water rafting on the Colorado," Snape suggested. "No, wait! Let's visit the Dalai Lama in Lhasa!" He stopped, peering intently at Harry's morose face. "Better idea. I know it's the wrong season and all, but what about Covent Garden?"

Harry smiled. "Covent Garden it is," he said. "But I'll wait until we're there before I bring you out."

Harry left a few minutes early for lunch so that he could find a table outside in the West Piazza and enchant it so that no one else would take his seat while he was getting food. Even in January, there were enough people at Covent Garden to warrant this precaution, and to attract musicians and other street performers to play for the crowd.

Once settled with food and drink, Harry placed the pensieve on the table, shielding it with his glass and soda bottle and a parcel, as well as a mild cloaking spell, so that others in the piazza wouldn't notice that he was talking to a tiny human being in a bowl. He held the flask under the table to get the memory. Seconds later, Snape was standing in the pensieve watching a contortionist fit herself into an impossibly small box.

"She's good," Harry said. "It's hard to believe she's not a witch."

"She has to be good. Otherwise she wouldn't be here," Snape replied.

"You mean no one would give her anything?"

"You need to be licensed. You have to audition, and if you're good enough, you get a time slot. This is no haphazard operation."

"I didn't know that," said Harry.

"I didn't either at your age. No one knows as much at eighteen as they do at forty."

"You're not forty yet."

"And never will be," said Snape. "Do you realize that when you're seventy-five, I'll still be thirty-eight? What a ghastly thought."

"Don't you want to live forever?"

"An overrated concept. What are you eating?"

"Nothing special. Just fish and chips. It was easy to carry. What's wrong with you?" Harry watched Snape quizzically, for the image had turned away and looked a bit shrunken. "Are you all right?"

"I love fish and chips," said Snape in a soft voice. "We used to have it regularly on Fridays when I was a boy. It was wrapped in real newspaper back then."

"Wasn't that, well, unsanitary?"

"Not really." Snape's voice was back to normal. "The papers were printed on these big presses, and when they came off the press, they were hot. Physically hot. 'Hot off the press' was a phrase that meant the latest news for a very real reason. The inside pages of that day's newspaper were actually sterilized and not unsanitary at all. Some of the ink could smudge, but that was it."

Harry looked at his fish and chips in its little box. "I'll save you some," he said.

"Great," said Snape. "Cold fish and chips." He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What were you working on this morning that had to go to Judicial Review?"

"Deposition in a criminal case. Death Eater facing life in Azkaban."

"Really? Who?"

"I don't think I'm supposed to tell you that." Harry thought for a moment. "Of course there's nothing you could do with it that I wouldn't know about. His name's Reginald Musgrave."

"That wimp? He couldn't hex his way out of a cereal box. None of the rest of us could even figure out why he became a Death Eater. I'd have guessed it was to impress a girlfriend if he hadn't been too timid to have one."

"You think he's innocent?"

"No one over the age of a day and a half is innocent. The legal phrase is 'not guilty,' and it always refers to a specific charge. What's he charged with?"

"Leading an attack against the Biggerstaff family. House destroyed, one wizard dead, the rest of the family in St. Mungo's, a muggle shop incinerated. Do you think he could have been Imperiused?"

"Only if his IQ's gone up. There are limits even to that spell." Snape thought for a moment. "When is this attack supposed to have occurred?"

"First half of April '97. I can get the exact date if you need it. Do you remember something?"

Snape raised his eyes toward heaven. "Earth to Potter," he said. "Memories… flask… dead professors… No, I do not remember anything, I just know Musgrave. On the other hand, there's probably something about him in that flask. I could look for it."

"Do you think it would take long?"

"No idea. I still haven't figured out how much there is in there. I certainly haven't seen all of it. I'll do what I can."

Harry closed the box on what was left of his meal, and he and Snape returned to the Ministry of Magic.

Harry didn't see Snape again until that evening in his lodgings, when he heated up the fish and chips and entered a memory. He found himself in a cafeteria. Snape was sitting at a table in a corner where a window looked out onto a grimy, working-class street. Harry glanced around at the walls, and decided the cafeteria was in a remodeled row house, probably a nineteenth century one. Another Snape, almost identical to the first, was sitting at a different table reading a book. Every table was occupied, some by individuals, some by small groups.

The first Snape motioned to Harry to join him. "No one ever sits here. It was Bella's preferred spot, and even when she was out of town, no one dared presume. Did you bring it?"

Harry gave him the fish and chips, and Snape proceeded to eat with a gusto Harry wouldn't have believed possible. "You have no idea," Snape said between bites, "how depressed I was thinking I'd never be able to do this again. We never know the value of something until we've lost it."

"Is this Death Eater headquarters?" Harry asked.

"It is. We're in…" Snape closed his eyes, bracing himself, "Birmingham. There." He opened his eyes again. "Now does that mean the secret keeper's dead – which he is, it was the Dark Lord – or that people stuck in pensieves aren't bound by Fidelius Charms?"

"Don't you know?" Harry asked.

"Nobody knows. The inventor of the charm probably didn't know. The Fidelius Charm is one of the least understood, least predictable spells in the wizard's arsenal. Theoretically it lasts forever. The death of the secret keeper just stops the situation as it was at the moment of his death – those who know, know, those who don't, don't. Exceptions seem to be more the rule than the rule is, though. The most bizarre example is a Charm simply turning itself off for no reason. It happened in 1376 to Chester Bracegirdle. Poor man. It was his own house, and he was the secret keeper. He'd gotten so used to the idea that no one could see his home that he'd gotten into the habit of bathing in his front room where it was warmer. He didn't realize the spell had switched off, but the neighbors noticed at once and started gathering in the street to watch and comment on his physical attributes…"

Harry burst out laughing. "You're making that up!"

"No… well… maybe some of it. Look behind you. Table in the middle of the wall. That innocuous looking little chap is Reginald Musgrave, and today is Friday, April 11, 1997. That year Fridays were my evening off at Hogwarts, and I would stay away through Saturday afternoon, though this happened to be during Easter break. Just watch."

The cafeteria was calm for five minutes, the gentle hum of quiet conversation wafting from the tables, then with a Bang! that made everyone jump, the door was flung open and three Death Eaters entered the room. One was Fenrir Greyback. Harry had never seen the other two before.

The two unknown newcomers headed for the food line to pick up supper while Greyback scanned the room looking for a table. He noticed Musgrave sitting at one big enough for six and singled him out.

"Shove over, Reggie, and make room for the real fighters!" Greyback ordered. "Don't get up. We're celebrating with firewhisky, and it's your treat!"

Musgrave did as commanded and practically flattened himself against the wall to ensure that Greyback not be crowded. The other two came over with the food, and Greyback snapped his fingers under Musgrave's nose by way of reminding him that he was paying for the drinks. Musgrave handed several sickles to one of the men, who shortly returned with four glasses of firewhisky.

The three newcomers quickly became boisterous as poor Musgrave stood for round after round of drinks. He himself was also getting quite drunk, and soon Greyback had his arm about the little man, talking about how valuable he was as a backup in an operation, and how he would never have survived the night without Reggie. Harry, listening to the whole conversation, understood that he was talking about the liquor, but quickly realized that as tables were emptied and new Death Eaters came to take their places, that might not be clear to those who hadn't witnessed the beginning.

"What about the girl who ran out the back door?" Greyback crowed. "Let her get almost to the gate, I did. She musta thought she was free and clear and then WHAM! Right in the back!"

"And the old lady who jumped out the upstairs window when the fire got too hot?" one of his comrades laughed. "The way her dress billowed up around her legs, I thought I'd die! And the crunch when she hit the ground… Best night o' my life." He leaned forward and clinked his glass with that of the inebriated Musgrave. "Good ol' Reggie. Where'd we be tonight without Reggie? What about another round?"

At this point memory Snape closed his book and rose from his table. Without a glance at Greyback or the others, he quietly left the cafeteria. Harry and Snape rushed to follow him out, but the memory was winding to its close and they had little time left.

"He wasn't there at all, was he?" Harry gasped as they followed Snape's double down a hall. "But a lot of people who heard the conversation probably thought he was. They really think he's guilty, even if he isn't."

Just before Harry vanished from the memory, Snape said, "And what are you going to do about it, Potter?"

xxxxxxxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

_Tuesday, January 12, 1999_

The next morning, Harry went straight to Savage. "That case I was working on yesterday," he blurted out, "the Musgrave case. What if we're wrong and he's innocent?"

Savage stared at him as if Harry'd suddenly sprouted three heads. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "We have witnesses who heard him bragging about the Biggerstaff raid the same evening it happened. How could he be innocent?"

"What if they heard wrong? What if they're remembering wrong?"

"Potter," said Savage slowly, "is this Musgrave a relative of yours or something? Because if you're a friend or relative of his, you have to take yourself off the case."

"No," Harry said, "I never knew anything about him before this. I was just wondering."

"Did you look at the file?"

"Parts of it."

"Good," said Savage. "If you read the file, you know the Biggerstaff family agree they were attacked in the early evening of April 11, 1997, by four Death Eaters. They were able to recognize Fenrir Greyback even with his mask because… well he's a werewolf and even when it isn't a full moon you can tell with him. He's never tried to hide it. Almost as soon as they finished at the Biggerstaffs, Greyback and three other Death Eaters were at a table in their headquarters, drinking and bragging about the raid. We have multiple witnesses as to who they were – Baldric Rigby, Walter Hayworth, and Reginald Musgrave, all of them in custody. It's an open and shut case."

"Do the four all agree that's who they were?"

"They all insist they had nothing to do with the attack and were somewhere else when it happened. It's not going to help them since we have the witnesses. Keep your nose out of it. Now get back to your work."

"What if I know he's innocent?"

Savage slammed his fist down on the desk. "What is this compulsion you have to whitewash Death Eaters!" he yelled. "First you took the slipperiest schemer that ever played both sides against the middle and tried to turn him into some kind of a hero. Nobody pushed you on that one because he was conveniently dead. Now you want to turn protector to scum who went out on raids against the elderly and children. Who are you going to champion next? William Stoughton? I'm taking you off this case. You're going back to supply requisitions!"

Harry trudged back to his cubicle, depressed but with a spark of rebellion growing in him. The Musgrave file was still in his outbox, and he pulled it out and opened it. It told him no more than he already knew. The Biggerstaffs were attacked by four Death Eaters who killed Magnus Biggerstaff and drove the rest of his family from the burning house, injuring most of them, most seriously Magnus's mother Juliana, who fell from an upper window. The attackers were seen later the same evening in the dining area of Death Eater headquarters discussing the raid. There were five witnesses, all Death Eaters in the custody of the Ministry of Magic: Rudy Carstairs, Berengaria Folkenstone, Horatio Gamp, Ambrosius Prendergast, and Gordon Crabbe.

Harry stared at the last name. _I wonder if he's related to Vincent, he thought. I didn't see anyone in that cafeteria who reminded me of Vincent Crabbe, though. Still…_

That was what gave Harry his idea. He carefully scanned each document in the Musgrave file, turning the pages slowly so that someone studying them in a pensieve memory could get a good look at them, then put the folder back in his outbox. Then he dutifully worked for the rest of the morning on his requisition forms, which Savage thoughtfully had sent up to him – stacks and stacks of them. At lunchtime, he put on his cloak, picked up his briefcase, and apparated home.

"What are we doing back here?" Snape complained as soon as he was released from the flask. "I thought I was supposed to get a change of scenery. What happened to Trafalgar Square? What happened to the theater at Stratford?"

"Be quiet and listen," Harry said. "Can you relocate any memory you've already been in?"

Snape didn't answer.

"Was that too hard a question?" Harry asked. "Do you want me to try something easier?"

"You told me to be quiet and listen. Now you want me to talk?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "This is important. It's about Musgrave."

"Yes," Snape replied. "Once I've been in a memory, I can recognize and reenter it. Reentering it, in fact, seems to be the only way I can fully remember it."

"I want you to take me back to the scene you showed me last night in the cafeteria."

Snape shrugged but did as he was told. Once back in Death Eater headquarters, Harry pulled out his piece of paper and indicated the people at the tables. "Which one is Rudy Carstairs?" he asked. Snape shook his head, not seeing him. Berengaria Folkenstone had curly, honey-blonde hair and painted her fingernails. Ambrosius Prendergast had a mustache and a wart on his nose. Neither Horatio Gamp nor Gordon Crabbe were there.

Greyback and his friends arrived and began celebrating. A chubby man with glasses, whom Snape identified as Carstairs, came in shortly after them. Prendergast left, and Gamp entered. Harry and Snape stayed as long as they could, but at no time did they see Gordon Crabbe in the cafeteria that night.

Back in the Ministry that afternoon, Harry filled out his requisition forms as quickly as he could, then used time in between batches to research the Musgrave case. The legal counsel assigned to Musgrave was a new, inexperienced lawyer named Cora Withyspindle. During a free moment, Harry popped around to her cubicle – she didn't have her own office either – and asked if he could have a moment of her time right after work. She recognized his scar, and fluttered a positive response. Harry went back to his desk hoping he hadn't given her the wrong idea.

About three o'clock, Harry had a confrontation with Snape. Somehow they managed to keep it at the volume of a whisper.

"NO! You will not tell her where you got the information!"

"She can't use information in a case if she can't tell the court where it comes from!"

"Then she's just not going to use it! I am not the two-headed calf or the bearded lady at a traveling carnival!"

"You forget, I can just bring her in to meet you."

"You do, and you'll never find me floating on the surface of that flask again!"

"Maybe I had better flush you down the toilet!"

"Considering the alternatives you've been offering me, I'd probably prefer it!"

When the day ended, Harry delayed a moment or two while the office pool emptied. Snape was safely in his crystal coffin, and it and the pensieve were in the briefcase. The desk was clear and… no one had come to take the folders in his outbox for filing. It was improper. It might even be illegal. Harry picked up the Musgrave folder and put it into his briefcase, too. Then he went looking for Miss Withyspindle.

She was packing up her desk and getting ready to go home as well. Even though it was just a cubicle, Harry knocked on the panel that formed the low wall. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a drink or something while we talked," he said.

Withyspindle looked flustered, but pleased. "I'd like that," she said, and smiled.

Harry glanced around. The office was empty. "Just so you know. It's about a case of yours. It's one of mine, too. So this is shop talk."

"Oh," said Withyspindle. She tried to hide her disappointment. "If that's what it takes to get a date around here, I guess that's what it takes."

"I didn't mean…" Harry started, then blushed himself. "I've got a girlfriend already, if that's what you're thinking," he said. "But if I didn't, I wouldn't be above using work as an excuse to get to know you."

Withyspindle smiled at that. "Where should we go? The only places I know around here are the Leaky Cauldron and in Diagon Alley."

"Too public and not public enough," Harry said. "You ever been to a muggle pub? They can be nice. Give me a moment."

He hurried out of the office into the men's room and quickly fished out the pensieve and a memory. Before he could begin explaining…

"Wait a minute!" Snape yipped. "You're not really going to flush me down a toilet? Potter, be reasonable about this! We can discuss it!"

"Be quiet. I wasn't in my office and this was the nearest private space. I'm taking the lawyer out for a drink and I need to know if there's a muggle pub nearby."

"I am not a pub crawler," said Snape icily, his composure not quite regained.

"I know there's a place right by the visitor's entrance," said Harry, "but it might be a wizard pub, and I don't want to take the chance. I also don't want to be tramping through the streets for hours looking."

"Just go back to the Covent Garden area," said Snape. "There are plenty there, all close together. You should be able to find something."

Harry thanked him, put him away, and returned to Withyspindle. "Have you ever been to Covent Garden?" he asked. She shook her head. They left the Ministry and entered an alley. Harry was a bit embarrassed about side-along apparating with a woman colleague he'd only known for a few minutes, but she didn't seem to mind. He chose a little side alley between buildings that he'd seen when he was there for lunch with Snape, and apparated. The only one who saw them pop in was a little American tourist girl who went running to her mother with a story about people 'jumping' at her. It was a matter of just five minutes before they located a pub, got a couple of pints, and found a booth in a corner.

"This is nice," said Withyspindle, sipping her beer.

"I need to talk to you about Reginald Musgrave," Harry replied.

"Why?" asked Withyspindle. "Is he a relative of yours?"

"I think he's innocent of the crime he's charged with," said Harry.

Withyspindle took her time over the next sip of beer. "I repeat," she said at last. "Why? Is he a relative of yours?"

"Why does everyone think I only want justice for my relatives?"

"Then I'm not the first person you've spoken to about this."

It was Harry's turn to pause. "Let's get something to eat and talk about this over dinner," he suggested. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

To Harry's great relief, Withyspindle agreed. They went to a counter next to the bar to check out what was offered as food, made their selections, and returned to the booth to wait for it to be heated and brought to them. By that time Harry's thoughts were in order.

"I mentioned it to Savage, my supervisor," he admitted. "He told me to mind my own business."

"Excellent advice. I recommend it."

"Wait a minute," said Harry suddenly. "Aren't you counsel for the defense?"

"That's what I've been told."

"Then aren't you supposed to do the best you can to give your client the best defense possible?"

"Sometimes that means the mildest possible sentence."

Harry folded his arms on the table and leaned across. "Look, Withyspindle," he started.

She leaned forward, too. "We're both too young for you to call me that," she said. "I'm Cora. Do I have to call you Potter?"

"Harry," said Harry. "Now look, Cora, I never heard of Musgrave until his folder landed on my desk, but since then I've received information that could prove he wasn't part of the raid on the Biggerstaffs. I need you to help me demonstrate that to the court in a legal and acceptable way, and I can't tell you my source."

"Then I take it you're shielding a known criminal, a Death Eater, a fugitive from justice."

"Yes and no," said Harry.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He was a Death Eater, but he's not a fugitive."

"So, he managed to hide his involvement and slip through the nets?"

"Wrong again. Everyone knows about his involvement, they're just not after him."

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you."

Cora shook her head. The waiter came with the food at that point, and she and Harry devoted their attention to eating for a few minutes. Then Harry started again.

"Let me explain why I think Musgrave's innocent."

"Go ahead. This should be fun."

"Death Eater headquarters had an eating area, a sort of cafeteria. That's in the file and part of the depositions. Musgrave was sitting by himself in the cafeteria eating. The place was full except for a table always reserved for Bella Lestrange. Prendergast and Folkenstone were there, too, not paying much attention. Then Greyback, Hayworth, and Rigby came in. They couldn't sit at Lestrange's table, so they made Musgrave move over for them, and also made him buy them firewhisky. They started bragging about the raid. They got drunk and talked more. One of the things they said was how nice it was to have Musgrave support them by getting them the drinks – by this time he was pretty plastered, too. Carstairs and Gamp came into the room partway through and didn't hear the beginning of the conversation. Crabbe was never there at all, so he couldn't have seen or heard it."

"You're wrong. We have a full deposition from Crabbe. And the others say Musgrave was part of the group."

Harry thought for a minute. "Have the witnesses talked to each other?" he asked.

"They're all in Azkaban. They're not allowed to communicate."

"Ask them all to make a list of the people who were there that night. See if Crabbe's list tallies with the others. Ask the others if they ever saw Crabbe there. Ask them if they were paying any attention to what Musgrave was doing or how long he'd been there before Greyback and his gang came in."

"You know," said Cora, her interest now piqued, "I think I'll do that."

Wednesday morning, Cora asked for an extension to take new depositions. The extension was granted, and she went with a stenographer to Azkaban that same afternoon and remained there deposing the witnesses until eleven o'clock the following morning. The raw depositions were on the judge's desk before lunch. By three in the afternoon, Reginald Musgrave's name had been removed from the docket in the Biggerstaff case and Gordon Crabbe had been charged both in the same case and with perjury. Before the end of the work day, Cora was besieged (if three reporters can be called a siege) by the press.

"What tipped you off?" the reporter from the Inquisitor asked.

"We noticed discrepancies in the depositions that led us to believe one or more of the witnesses was fabricating evidence."

"Can you explain the relationship between this case and the recent discovery that Porlock habitat is extending into Cornwall and Somerset?" This from the Quibbler.

"No comment."

"You're new to the legal department, and this is your first case," said the reporter from the _Prophet_. "Were you able to benefit from the advice and experience of your colleagues?"

"Everyone has been very helpful and supportive. I would particularly like to thank Harry Potter in the Auror Department. His insights in particular helped resolve the issue."

The interview appeared in the _Prophet_ the next day, and Saturday morning found Harry with four guests: Ron, Hermione, George, and a very irate Ginny Weasley.

"Who is she?" Ginny demanded as soon as the door to Harry's rooms was closed.

"How'd you manage to get out of Hogwarts? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but it is only the middle of January…"

"McGonagall said it was okay. Besides, I'm of age. Who is she?"

"Just a colleague from the legal department. Hearings and trials."

"The _Prophet_ says petite, vivacious, and blonde."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Honestly, Ginny, all we talked about was a case. I told her I had a girlfriend."

George moved a chair to face them and sat down for a front row view. Ron and Hermione merely glanced at each other.

"If all you were talking about was a case, why did the subject of girlfriends come up?" The tone of Ginny's voice was deceptively rational.

"I had to tell her, Ginny. I didn't want her to get the wrong impression about dinner… I mean, why I asked…"

"You took her to dinner! I thought you discussed this in an office! Dinner?" Ginny was quivering with fury. "I'm stuck up in that school all winter and you're using lame excuses to date every girl in the Ministry of Magic! Did you wine and dine her all evening?"

"It was just a couple of drinks and bite to eat in a pub…"

"Oh that's cozy! That makes me feel so much better about this! Like if you're cheap about it, it doesn't count as a date! Why couldn't you discuss it at work?"

"If I'd done that, everyone would know, and it had to be a secret…"

"Right! That makes a ton of sense! Government workers discussing a legal matter in their own offices and it has to be a secret! Can't just close the door, oh no! Has to sneak out to a pub for drinks and linger over dinner!"

"We were talking about a case!"

"Which is why you pointed out that you had a girlfriend! I suppose you also told her I was locked in a school at the other end of Britain! Maybe I should start having 'study sessions' with Ritchie Coote or Andy Kirk!"

"I take it," Hermione interrupted, "that you didn't tell this lawyer colleague of yours about… you know."

"No, of course not," Harry said, glad for the shift in subject. "It's still a secret."

"What's a secret?" Ginny demanded.

"Don't you see, Ginny, that's why we couldn't talk about it in the Ministry. It had to stay a…"

"All I can see, Harry James Potter, is that you're dating other girls, and you're keeping secrets from me."

"She's got you there, Harry old boy." George was grinning widely. "Let's see you wiggle out of that one."

"We were kind of hoping," said Ron, "to talk to You-Know-Who." He winked at Harry.

Ginny exploded. "Voldemort! You've got some way of communicating with Voldemort! That's got to be illegal!"

"No! NO!" Ron cried, waving his hands to shush her. "When I said You-Know-Who, I meant they know who, not that you know who. You don't know who at all."

"So!" said Ginny with her hands on her hips, the miniature of her mother. "So I'm the only one you're keeping out of this. You'd better tell me what's going on, Harry, or I'll never speak to you again."

"I can't tell you unless I speak to him first and get his permission."

"Speak to who?"

"Honest, Ginny, I can't tell you without his permission."

"Then get it!"

"Go ahead, Harry," George urged. "You could do it right now. We'd all make sure Ginny here didn't interfere. Go on and ask him."

Harry looked around at his friends. His best friends. They would never do anything to mess up his life. "All right," he agreed, "but you stay right here until I get back." He walked over to the cupboard and extracted the pensieve and the flask. ('What's that?' Ginny stage whispered to Hermione, who shook her head.) A strand of thought soon floated in the basin, Harry glanced at his friends to be sure they were behaving, and then Harry entered the pensieve…

It was summer, one of those long, slow northern evenings when it seems the sun will never set. He was standing in rolling moor country, a small town nestled just to the south, and a teenage Snape was kneeling in the scrub collecting herbs. The adult Snape stood nearby, watching. At Harry's entrance, he looked up.

"There you are, Potter. It's about time. Did you bring my newspaper?"

"Oh. No, I forgot. There was something else I needed to…"

There was a 'pop' to Harry's left, and Ginny stood on the moor, her back to Harry. Right behind her came George, and then Ron. There was only the smallest pause before Hermione was there, too.

"Potter," Snape snarled, and at the sound of his voice, Ginny spun to face him. "What is the meaning of this? This is unexcus…"

He didn't finish the sentence because at that moment Ginny launched herself at him, fists flailing. "You RAT!" she screamed. "You TOAD! VILLAIN! You had them Cruciate Neville! You had them Cruciate Colin! I'll kill you!"

By this time she and Snape were locked together, Ginny on the attack and Snape striving to grasp hold of her wrists to control her. The moment he succeeded, she started kicking. "Potter!" Snape yelled, "You muzzle this pit bull before I have to stun her!"

"You do," George shouted at him, drawing his own wand, "and I'll Petrify you. You get him, Ginny! Pound the slimy git!"

Harry was beside himself, screaming over and over, "Stop, Ginny! Stop!" and trying to get George's wand away from him. Ron just watched, an expression of glee on his face. It was Hermione who took action. _"Locomotor Mortis!"_ she cried, and Ginny stopped kicking. She would have fallen over had not Snape supported her and eased her gently to the ground. Then he rounded on George.

"SLIMY GIT!" he roared. He advanced on George, who backed off. Snape was quicker, though, and seized George's arms. Instead of pushing him away, however, he pulled George forward, hooking his foot around George's ankle to bring him crashing to the ground and then deftly removing his wand. "If you're a wizard, there's hope for every ape in Africa!" He tucked the wand into his own robes. "Not to mention a couple of species in Indochina and the Pacific Islands!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry stammered. "I didn't mean…"

"Didn't mean? Didn't mean! You couldn't go someplace else to talk to me? You had to do it right in front of them? The most notorious scoundrels in the wizarding world? First Porthos and Aramis, then Scaramouche! And now Madame Defarge! You go too far, Potter!"

Snape wheeled to walk away, then stopped. "Get out," he said coldly as he turned back to Harry. "Get out of my memories. Get out of my mind. Get out of my life! Now! You and this rabble both!"

"No," said Hermione quietly. "If they do that now, there's only two alternatives. One is to keep you in the pensieve, perpetually at their bidding. The other is to lose you in the thousands of other memories in that flask forever. Neither one is acceptable. We have to talk."

Snape regarded her carefully. "I don't see that there's anything to talk about."

"I think there is." Hermione said. "We have a unique situation here, and there are no rules or guidelines to follow."

"Yes, there are. You're breaking them." Snape moved several steps towards her, leaving the others physically outside their circle of confrontation.

"What rules are we breaking?"

"You are trespassing on private property."

"We have permission from the owner."

"No you don't. I never…"

"Harry is the owner. You gave him these thoughts. You said to him, 'Take it.' I know. I was there. Harry bought the flask and the pensieve. They're his as well. If this goes to court, you haven't a case."

"I am not," said Snape through clenched teeth, "a possession. I am not a toy, or a game, or a freak on display for your amusement. I am a person, and I have the right to the peaceful enjoyment of my domicile, which happens to be this flask and it's contents. I have the right to immunity from harassment, and I have the right to privacy."

Snape looked over at Ginny. "Are you going to launch another unprovoked attack at me?" he asked, and when she shook her head, he released her from Hermione's Leg-Locker curse. Ginny clambered to her feet.

"If this does go to court," Hermione continued, "you would have to prove that you're a person. That isn't exactly a self-evident proposition."

"Don't be silly, girl. I am self-aware and have the ability to think rationally. I have an independent will, and the only reason I cannot always express it is due to physical limitation. If I were imprisoned in a paralyzed body whose motor impulses were kept functioning by machines, and yet could demonstrate by eye movement that my mind was still intact, do you think the courts would refuse to grant me the status of a person?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "You would still need a guardian," she pointed out.

"Yes," replied Snape. "One whose actions could be reviewed by the court and whose status could be revoked if he abused his position."

"Wait a minute!" said George suddenly. He hadn't bothered to get up, and was still sitting on the spot where Snape had deposited him, his arms resting lazily on his knees. "Are you the one who gave Harry the information in that Death Eater case?"

"Yes," Harry said. "He was sitting in the cafeteria at headquarters that night, and witnessed the whole thing. He even let me watch the memory and pointed out which ones were the witnesses. I just had to figure out how the defense could get to the truth in a way that could be used in court without involving him."

"Wicked," George sighed. "Could you tell me who dumped pumpkin juice all over me and Fred in the Great Hall during the Welcoming Feast in our second year?"

"I probably could," said Snape, "but I'd have to find the memory. Why don't you put your own memory into a pensieve and look at it? You'd have your answer much faster."

George grinned, clearly appreciating the suggestion. Meanwhile, Ginny had been watching the seventh person in the tableau. "Where's he going?" she asked, pointing towards the teenage Snape, who had risen and brushed off his clothes, and was now strolling back towards the town. Even as she spoke, Harry felt the tug of an invisible force pulling him in the same direction, and knew that the others felt it, too.

"That's it," said Snape suddenly. "The memory's over. You have to leave now."

"I don't think so," said Ron, moving after Young Snape. "Let's see where he's going." George rose from the ground to follow Ron. The others were slower, letting the memory push them.

"It's finished," Snape insisted. "Potter, you and your friends have to leave."

"I don't think it's quite…" Harry began, then remembered the shabby worker's cottage at the end of the dirty street from the first memory he'd seen. "You're right," he said. "It's over. Let's go."

None of the others made any attempt to leave. Harry realized then what he had to do. He exited the memory, and was surprised to see his table and the pensieve, with the Weasleys and Hermione huddled in a circle around it, bent over so that their heads were close to the surface. Harry took hold of Ron's robes and pulled.

"Hey!" Ron exclaimed as he emerged. "What's the idea? I wanted to see where he was going!" Harry didn't answer, but grabbed George next, and then Ginny. Hermione had come out on her own as soon as Ron was gone. Harry quickly pulled out his wand and replace the memory in its flask.

"You twit, Harry!" George yelled. "I've got to go back. The blighter's still got my wand!"

"How can he have your wand," Harry snapped back, "if your physical body never left this room? You were all standing around the pensieve when I came out. Check your robes."

George checked and sure enough, his wand was there. He smiled happily and aimed a growth charm at a little potted geranium on Harry's window sill. Nothing happened. He tried it again with the same result. "He may not have the wand," George said bitterly, "but he has whatever makes it work."

"That's impossible," said Hermione. "It's the core that makes it work. The core must still be there."

"Right, Miss Smarty-Pants," huffed George. "You make it work if it's so simple."

Hermione tried, and one by one the others did, too, but George's wand refused to cast a spell. "I wonder if that means that a wand has a spirit," Hermione mused. "Harry, this pensieve business is becoming very complex. I think we need to find out more about it before we go any further."

"Meanwhile," George insisted, "what about my wand?"

"I'll go get it," said Harry, "and I swear, if any of you follows me, I'll... I'll never speak to you again!"

"Promise?" said George maliciously, but he stepped back from the pensieve.

The top memory was still the one of the moor and Young Snape collecting herbs, but there was no older Snape in sight. Harry searched the area where they'd been standing to see if Snape had dropped the wand there, but there was no wand evident. He waited until the teenager rose and returned to his home, but the memory ended as he went in the kitchen door, and nowhere around was there a wand to be seen. Harry resurfaced.

"That took a while, mate," said Ron. "We were getting worried. Did you and the professor have a fight over the wand?"

"He wasn't there, Harry told them. "The wand wasn't there either. We're going to have to wait until he decides to let us join him again."

"No we won't," George threatened. "We're getting a very large bowl and we're going through those memories one by one until we get my wand back."

"No, you're not," said Harry, standing between George and the pensieve. "You started this, coming along when you knew it would only cause trouble. It's your own fault. You shouldn't have upset him. You can get a new wand from Ollivander. Then when we get the other one back, you'll have two. It's not going to kill you."

Ron stepped next to George. "That's all very well, but George is right. We need to get it back."

Hermione placed herself on Harry's side and, after a moment, so did Ginny. "You traitor!" Ron cried, but Ginny shook her head.

"Harry was telling the truth," she said. "It really was all about a case, and they couldn't talk about it at the Ministry. And he couldn't just tell me about it without permission, either. I know I messed things up, but I'm not going to mess them up anymore. Besides, I've got my own questions I want answered, and if we push too hard now, he'll never talk to me again. You're going to have to wait, George."

George stormed out in a rage, and after hesitating for a moment, Ron shrugged and followed him. Harry and the two girls sat staring at the pensieve.

"Do you think we should try again?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "Too soon. He needs time to cool off. Let's go to Diagon Alley. We can have lunch, do some shopping. I want to look for some books on pensieves. On the way back, I'm going to get fish and chips takeaway. He loves fish and chips."

"He can eat?" Hermione exclaimed.

"I don't know if you'd call it eating if neither the eater nor the food is solid," Harry laughed, "but he can taste it. You should have seen his face when he tried the first cup of coffee I brought him. I take him the newspaper, too."

"What happens to the paper and food outside?" Hermione asked.

"I usually bring the newspaper back later in the morning," said Harry. "No call to litter in there after all. I never noticed any difference. The food here… well I know it loses its smell, but I never actually tried eating it. I just toss it."

"We could experiment," said Hermione. "That would be very scientific."

"Only if you find Professor Snape again," Ginny said. "There's no guarantee you will."

Harry locked the flask and the pensieve in his cupboard, and the three of them went downstairs and apparated to Diagon Alley.

The afternoon's investigations were less than profitable. No situation like the one they were in appeared ever to have existed before. They did, however, discover a few useful pieces of information. The first was that a person entering into the pensieve world could not be separated from the body outside. No person had ever been divided because part of him had been abandoned in a pensieve.

"How come Snape's in the pensieve then," Ginny asked when Harry read this to them from the book he was browsing through back at the boarding house flat.

"Because he didn't enter a pensieve to look at a memory," Hermione replied. She looked over at Ginny. "Oh, that's right," she said. "You and George weren't there. You didn't see what happened. Harry, get your pensieve. I want Ginny to see my memory. She can't completely understand until she sees what we witnessed."

"No," said Harry. "I was in front. I saw everything. It should be my memory." He got the pensieve and placed it on the table, then touched his wand to the side of his head. The long, thin, misty filament eased out through his hair, and he put it in the pensieve. "Remember that," he said to Ginny. "That's how a pensieve memory's extracted. It goes back in the same way. I think it's important. I'm going with you. You shouldn't have to see this alone. It isn't pretty."

Hermione came as well. They were again in the Shrieking Shack, watching as Voldemort toyed with Snape, Snape who – Harry now realized – was fully aware of what was about to happen, but was still focused on getting his message to Harry, playing for time, knowing that he couldn't protect himself against Voldemort's attack because Voldemort still had two Horcruxes left.

"He could have saved himself," Harry whispered to Ginny, who was watching, wide-eyed, "but if he did, Voldemort would have been saved by his Horcruxes. Even if he couldn't talk to me, he was ready to sacrifice himself in the hope that fate would destroy the Horcruxes in time. Watch. He never lifts a finger in his own defense."

The snake bubble enclosed Snape's head and shoulders and, instinct now overwhelming will, Snape clawed at the outside of the capsule, unable to touch the serpent within. When he fell writhing to the ground, Voldemort left, his words of regret more a mockery of Snape than any expression of sympathy.

Blood was spurting everywhere. Snape's hands clutched at his throat, and Ginny buried her face in Harry's shoulder, whimpering. Memory Harry now crawled from his hiding place and knelt by the dying Snape. Snape saw him, clutched at him, and gasped, "Take it…"

It was like a dam bursting. Thoughts poured from Snape's mind with a force that would have burst his head asunder had not eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth provided exits. Ginny clung to Harry in horror, and Harry marveled that he hadn't realized at the time that he was witnessing the complete self-immolation of another human being. Pensieve Hermione stepped forward, conjuring a flask, and she and Harry caught and scooped all the memory fragments into it.

There remained only the last moment, the murmured 'Look at me,' and it was over. Pensieve Harry, Hermione, and Ron escaped back through the tunnel to the last confrontation, carrying with them the secret to Voldemort's destruction. With that, Harry pulled Ginny from the pensieve.

Ginny sat by the table in Harry's front room, her eyes closed, breathing heavily. Harry wasn't sure what to do. He laid a hand on her shoulder, whispering her name. "Ginny, are you all right. Ginny, say something…"

The brown eyes opened wide. "You louse!" Ginny screamed, springing up and slapping his face. "I hate you! You heartless beast! You scoundrel! You didn't try to save him! You didn't even close his eyes! He died in your arms, and you didn't even close his eyes!" She collapsed to the floor, sobs wracking her body. "I'm sorry." she cried. "I'm so sorry…"

"It's all right," soothed Hermione, cradling her. "It's over. It's been over for months. He doesn't know about it. He never saw it. He can't remember it because the memory isn't there. We know, but he doesn't."

Gradually Ginny stopped crying. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"The Snape we see in the pensieve," Hermione explained. "All those memories came out before he died, so there's no memory in there of his own death. He can't see that. He'll never see that. If he ever finds the last memory, it will be while he's still alive and looking at Harry. He has no images of the end. He never has to relive it. He never has to know."

Ginny scrubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. "That's good, right? I mean, it would be frightful having to witness your own death over and over again. It's good he doesn't have to." She looked around the room, at the ceiling, at the windows. "Oh Harry, why did so many people have to suffer so much? Why didn't we know?"

"We did know," said Harry. "Dumbledore told me over and over again that Snape was loyal, that he was on our side, and I never did believe him. You know who else told me the same thing? Hagrid. And I never did believe Hagrid either. You know, though, we saw a memory where it was clear that Hagrid had been taking care of Snape for a long time. If there's anybody still alive who knows Professor Snape, I'll bet it's Hagrid. I'm going up to Hogwarts tomorrow to talk to him."

"Good," said Ginny. "I look forward to it." The afternoon was over, and Ginny returned to school while Hermione went to her own home. Harry exercised remarkable restraint and didn't even try to look at a pensieve image all evening.

xxxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

_Sunday, January 17, 1999_

Early the next morning, Harry brought the _Prophet_ and a cup of coffee up from the dining room, plus two very special items. The first – Harry having completely forgotten to pick up fish and chips the evening before – was a bit of kippered herring (Ginny had remembered seeing the professor eat it), and the other was a copy of the _Times_.

Unstoppering the crystal coffin, he said to the mist, "Good morning, Professor. I have a couple of extras for breakfast this morning, if you're interested." He waited a few minutes, and then hooked the topmost memory…

He was in the Potions classroom. It was double Potions, Gryffindor and Slytherin, but it wasn't his class, it was Ginny's. She sat with some friends on one side of the room, mixing a potion whose formula was written on the board. Snape moved between the tables, observing each student's efforts.

"Good morning, Potter," Snape said at Harry's side. "I trust it is still far too early to bring unwelcome visitors and that this is a peace offering?" He sniffed the herring. "And kipper, too. I am almost persuaded to let bygones be bygones."

"That's not all," said Harry, encouraged by his reception. He held out the copy of the _Times_.

Snape stared at it for a couple of seconds before remembering to close his mouth, which he did very quickly. "Potter, I am astounded. Truly astounded. May I?" He took coffee, kipper, and both newspapers over to his desk, his alter ego still busy with the students. "Almost like the Great Hall," he commented, opening the paper and beginning to read.

Harry just sat to one side and waited, pleased that his overtures had met with success. It was fifteen minutes before he realized the memory venue had a purpose. Then, without warning, the general hum of students working escalated into a shouting match.

"Hey! Put those back!" The voice was unmistakable. It was Ginny's. "That's my jar of newt's eyes!"

"You don't have to hog 'em, Weasley! The rest of us need 'em, too."

Memory Snape rolled his eyes to the ceiling, mouthed the work 'Gryffindor,' and headed for that side of the room. "Kirke, Weasley, the jars of ingredients should remain on the common table. Measure what you need…"

"I had that all ready for my potion! He took it right when I had to put it in!"

"My potion was ready first! I'm not going to ruin it just because you're selfish!"

"You take that back, Andy Kirke or I'll…"

"Miss Weasley, put that wand down!"

There was a flash of light, and Kirke's cauldron left its table to smash against the wall.

"Miss Weasley, you are on detention." Memory Snape cast double Evanesco spells, clearing up both the mess from Kirke's cauldron and the brewing potion in Ginny's. "In addition, since Master Kirke will have to redo his assignment after school, you will join him and do yours at the same…"

"That's not fair! He took the ingredients I needed!"

"That is enough. You will sit quietly for the rest of the class."

"I have Quidditch practice after school!"

"I leave it to you to explain to your team mates why you will not be there."

"You're not being fair!"

"You will be silent now, Miss Weasley, until the end of the class. Or would you rather go to the hospital wing to discuss this with Madam Pomfrey?"

Ginny glared at Snape and stomped over to a chair by the wall. There she folded her arms across her chest and pouted. The rest of the class went back to working on their potions, the excitement now being over.

Pensieve Snape picked up his newspapers, coffee, and empty plate and brought them to the side table where Harry was sitting. "Feisty, isn't she?" he commented.

"Why did you show me that?" Harry demanded. "And what was that about Madam Pomfrey?"

"Only," said Snape blandly, "that I got the impression – some time ago, in fact, all the teachers did – that you might have to deal with this on a regular basis. Shall we say 'periodically?' Madam Pomfrey was working on the problem."

Harry blushed. "That's Ginny's private life. You shouldn't be telling me about it."

"And this is my private life. You shouldn't be bringing other people into it."

"But you're the one who chooses what we can see."

"Now you're being unfair," Snape said quietly.

"How can that be unfair?" Harry asked. "You choose the memory to go on the top. That's the one I pick."

"But I don't know when you'll come in and pick it. Are you saying that I'm only allowed to revisit those memories that are acceptable for the whole world to see and never look at the memories that are more personal? That's a poor sort of life. It isn't great to begin with, and now I have to be restricted even further?"

"What if we have a regular timetable?" Harry suggested.

"What time is it right now?" Snape asked. "In outside terms, how much time have you spent in this memory?"

Reluctantly Harry admitted, "I don't know."

"Of course not," said Snape. "It's a dream world. Time isn't the same thing. What day is it today? What year? Is it still 1999?"

Harry laughed. "Yeah, it's still 1999. It's still January. Sunday, January 17, to be exact. But you knew that. It's on the newspaper."

"Assuming you brought me today's paper. How would I know? The point is, I don't know when you're coming in, so I either have to stay forever in the same memory, or I can't control what you see."

"You controlled this one. You wanted me to see Ginny's temper tantrum, right? But I guess you heard me telling you I was coming in."

"Heard you?" Snape looked puzzled. "No, I didn't hear you. I just had a… a feeling that I needed to be ready. The feeling turned out to be correct, but I don't know that it had anything to do with your saying something."

"It's easy to check," Harry said. "I'll just give a warning every time, a couple of minutes before I come in. When you get that feeling, you choose a memory. If it's consistent, then we know you can hear me. Or at least sense me."

"That sounds workable," Snape agreed. "What were you planning to do to me today?"

"I was thinking of going to Hogwarts and talking to Hagrid."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Whatever for?" he asked.

"It's just that I'm beginning to realize that Hagrid's always known a lot more than I ever gave him credit for."

"A step in the right direction. Let me know the moment you realize that everyone's always known a lot more than you ever gave them credit for."

Harry leaned back and regarded Snape shrewdly. "And when are you going to admit that I knew more than you gave me credit for?"

"When you're thirty. No, when you're thirty-eight and we're the same age. Then we'll see who's smarter."

"You're thirty-nine. Your birthday was last weekend."

"Birthdays don't count anymore, Potter."

"Right," said Harry. "Do you agree to go and see Hagrid?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. Say no, and I leave you in the cupboard to enjoy your memories. Say yes, and I take you to Hogwarts. When it gets to the point of coming in again, I'll ask you if you want him to come, too. That'll give you time to think about it."

"The answer is no."

Harry sighed, not even trying to hide his disappointment. "Okay," he said. "Have it your way. I'll come back this evening and let you know what we talked about." He rose and collected the papers and the dishes. "Enjoy your day."

Snape watched him intently. Then, just as Harry was about to leave… "Potter." Harry paused. "Not even trying to change my mind? Not one word of argument? Well then, I have changed my mind. I agree to go to Hogwarts. But remember, no one comes here unless you first visit and get my permission."

"Agreed," Harry said, grinning. He exited the pensieve and finished getting ready. Half an hour later, flask and pensieve in his briefcase, he hurried down to the apparating yard and a moment later was walking up to the Hogwarts gate flanked by its boar statues. The gate was open, and Ginny was standing there to greet him.

"Did you tell him?" Harry asked, after sneaking a quick glance around and, seeing no one, kissing Ginny there by the gate.

"I told him you were coming. I told him you might have a surprise for him. I didn't say what."

The two walked slowly, hand in hand, past the path going up to the castle and around the hill to Hagrid's hut. It was still relatively early on a Sunday morning, and most of the residents of the castle were probably still in bed. There was a thin layer of snow on the ground that crunched under their feet. Everything looked pristine in its blanket of white. Very different from the previous May.

Hagrid came lumbering out to meet them. "Harry! Bless me, it's been too long. Ya might think about visiting yer friends from time to time. Tho' I imagine they got ya that busy at the Ministry, ya don't have any free time t' yerself. Saw yer name in the _Prophet._ Good job."

"Harry!" cried a voice from the hill. "Harry Potter!"

Harry looked up to see Professor McGonagall hurrying down the path, holding her robes up past her ankles to keep from tripping on them. "What're ye doing here, lad? Ye might give a body fair warning!" Behind her, moving almost as quickly, were Professors Sprout and Flitwick.

"You didn't tell them, did you?" Harry whispered to Ginny. "I told him about Hagrid, but this could be too much."

"I didn't say a word," Ginny murmured in reply. "I guess we have to play it by ear."

"Well, ain't that nice," Hagrid grinned. "I guess we're gonna have a party."

Just how much of a party became clear when Harry entered Hagrid's hut. The table was laid with an enormous breakfast and set for six. The food was from the kitchens, elf-supplied. "You told them," Harry accused Hagrid. "You let the cat out of the bag."

"Well I couldn't very well keep a thing like this from yer head o' house, now could I?" Hagrid said. "She'd never let me hear the end of it."

The three professors were soon in the hut as well, and they started a jovial meal, everyone plying Harry with questions about his new home and his new job, and wanting to hear how he managed to help resolve the Musgrave case and bring the real criminal to justice.

Harry patiently replied in as much detail as he could, and even promised to find out from Mrs. Nokes what her maiden name had been, for McGonagall was certain she would remember her if she knew. ("Tell her I was Minerva McGregor," she confided. "She may recall the name.") In addition, he was saving bits of the breakfast on a small side plate: individual bites of fried mushrooms, bacon, omelet, buttered toast, sausage, melon, a small glass of pumpkin juice, and of course coffee. After a while the others began to remark on it.

"Y're not saving that up f'r lunch, are ya Harry? Hagrid asked. "Ya'll be having lunch with us. Don't tell me they don't feed ya at that place y're living at!"

"It hardly looks like lunch," said Sprout. "More like a sampler. A little bit of this and that. Are you planning on showing the cook where you live what a real breakfast should be like?"

"Not exactly," said Harry. "This is for… for one of the reasons I came. Something really strange has happened. I was coming to show it to Hagrid first for… reasons I'll explain later. It's kind of, well, unexpected having more people here, though. It could be hard to take."

"It seems to me you're taking it quite well," said McGonagall.

"Not me. Someone else." He started clearing a wide spot on the table, Ginny assisting, and then opened his briefcase and took out the flask and the pensieve. "This could be awkward," he added.

"What an unusual container," said McGonagall, examining the flask minutely. "Look at this, Filius. It appears to be soulstone. An extremely large specimen, and such a gruesome shape."

Flitwick joined her. "You're right," he said. "You must have paid a fortune for it. I've only ever heard of two like it in the world, and they both…" He eyed Harry sharply. "Where did you get this?" he asked.

"I'd rather not say just yet," said Harry. "I didn't pay a fortune for it, and when I bought it I didn't know there was anything odd about it. I think you're going to have to explain it to me, but not yet. First I have to see someone about a request."

He unstoppered the emerald coffin and said, "I'm coming over in a minute," then waited. The others watched as he selected a memory and picked up the plate of food. "Nobody follows," he said. "That's really important. You all just wait here." With that, Harry entered the pensieve…

He was in the Great Hall, and Hagrid was decorating it for Christmas. The fir trees were all up, Flitwick had finished putting the ornaments on them, and Hagrid was hanging branches and wreaths. The Hall was nearly empty; most of the students had left for the holidays. Memory Snape was sitting at the Slytherin table reading, having just finished lunch. Pensieve Snape was standing next to Hagrid giving advice that memory Hagrid couldn't hear.

"You know you never get them even. You've got to move it over another foot. I offered to help you, but no… And now I'm going to have to stare at it for three weeks… There you are, Harry. Are we at Hogwarts?"

Harry handed Snape the plate and a fork. "Yeah," he said. "We're there. I thought you might like this. I just finished a second breakfast myself."

Snape took the plate eagerly, sat at the end of the Hufflepuff table, and began to eat. "You know," he said after a moment. "It's a terrible comment on the quality of one's existence when food becomes the only thing one can look forward to."

"You could have a lot more to look forward to, you know," said Harry.

"The inside of that hole you call your office?" said Snape. "Hardly."

"What about company? Friends?"

"You forget, Potter, to whom you're speaking. Who would you count as these friends? No offense meant – well, maybe a little – but being surrounded by teenagers is not my first choice for company. Nor would I call them friends."

"You had some friends once, didn't you?"

"After you left last time, Potter, I did a bit of an inventory. I was trying to think if I knew any person who did not stab me in the back at least once. Do you know how many names I came up with? One."

"My mother?"

"Don't be silly. She married your father, didn't she?"

"I don't think that counts as stabbing someone in the back," Harry said, ruffled.

"You forget. I knew your father. You didn't. No, the one person was Hagrid. That is why I'm here celebrating Christmas in January. I've decided that I should like to see Hagrid again."

"That's great!" Harry exclaimed. "I haven't told him anything yet. I didn't want to get his hopes up and then…" He stopped. "There's more, though. Ginny told Hagrid we were coming, and then Hagrid told a couple of other people. None of them knows about you yet, though they've seen the pensieve. I'm not sure what to do about it. They came to see me."

"Who are they?" Snape asked warily.

"Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout."

Snape was on his feet in an instant, hurling the plate at the wall. "No!" he shouted. "I will NOT see them! Or speak to them! Or have anything to do with them! Do you know…!" He turned to Harry. "Of course you know. You were there, weren't you? Under that blasted cloak!"

"I don't understand…"

"You don't understand! Try using a little imagination. You see what it's like having a score of daggers aimed at you with enough force to pierce metal! You see what it's like to be nearly crushed to death by a suit of armor! All I wanted to do was talk, and they tried to kill me! Get rid of them! Say nothing to Hagrid until they're gone!"

"Sir, please. They were trying to protect me. They thought – we all thought – you were on Voldemort's side. We know better now. Can't you…"

"NO! They're nothing but a pack of foul, vile murderers! Bloodthirsty! Wicked! Evil!" Snape was trying to pick up memory items to throw, but with no success.

"Wouldn't you like to be able to tell them that yourself, sir?" Harry said softly. "Wouldn't you like the satisfaction of finally letting them know how you felt? I could bring a whole bunch of stuff with me for you to chuck at them…"

Snape paused in his ineffectual rampage. His breathing gradually slowed. "I think I would," he said. "I think I would like that very much. Bring rocks."

"Are you serious? It's okay for me to tell them and bring them here? I don't want to make another mistake about this."

"Will you promise me that the moment I say it's over, with no questions, no protests, and no hesitations, you'll pull them back out again as you did yesterday with the other intruders?"

"I promise."

"Very well, then, Potter. You may bring them in. Only – kindly don't forget the rocks."

An instant later, Harry was standing in Hagrid's hut, surrounded by the expectant little group. "This isn't going to be easy," he said. "He's pretty upset. Could everyone sit down, please, while I explain?"

They sat, waiting.

"There's a… something… a person…" Harry began hesitantly. He gathered his courage and lunged forward. "There's a personality in that flask. There's thousands of memories, and among the memories there were fragments of something more. The something else has coalesced into the one personality that the memories belong to. Professor Snape's personality. He's in the flask, and we can talk to him."

The news was greeted with shocked silence. After a moment, McGonagall spoke. "Severus? Severus's personality is in that flask? Surely you mean a memory image, Harry. Conscious entities do not exist in pensieve filaments. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Filius?"

Flitwick shook his head. "I don't see how it's possible. You can't extract the mind with the memory in a pensieve spell. That's not how it works."

"I know how it works," Harry said. "I watched both Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape do it, and now I've done it myself, but that's not what happened in the Shrieking Shack. He was dying, and nobody extracted a memory with a wand. His memories weren't extracted at all. They were forced out from the inside, spilled, like… like something split him apart and his whole mind just came pouring out. I was lucky Hermione was there. I wouldn't have known what to do."

"So there is a possibility that there was more there than memories." Flitwick pondered the problem. "When did you notice?"

"About a week and a half ago. I had Hermione's flask in my bedroom closet, and it started leaking. I caught it in time and took it to… someone to untangle the strands and put them into a new flask. He's the one who did something to make the personality come together. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been able to sort out the rest. It was churning things up too much."

"Is that where you got the flask?" Flitwick asked.

"Yeah," said Harry, "but I'm not telling you who. I don't want anyone to get into trouble for helping me."

"Will Severus talk to us?" Sprout asked. "I'd like to see him again."

Harry shook his head. "You may regret those words, Professor," he said. "He'll see you, and he's more than ready to talk at you, but I don't know about talking to you. He's pretty angry."

"Angry?" said McGonagall. "What has Severus to be angry with us about?"

"Do you remember the last time you saw him?"

"Harry, the last time I saw him, I was burying him."

"Sorry. Do you remember the last time he saw you?"

McGonagall frowned. "Well, yes. We were dueling, as I recall. On the fifth floor. He wished to apprehend you, and I was trying to prevent it. Filius and Pomona were there as well."

"Dueling?" Harry laughed. "That's not what he calls it. He says… Maybe I'd better just let him tell you." He got up and moved around Hagrid's hut, collecting an assortment of trinkets that looked relatively unbreakable. "Could Professor Snape borrow these, Hagrid? They may get a bit of rough treatment, but they'll survive."

"Sure," said Hagrid. "I got a good idea, listening to the conversation, 'bout the kind o' treatment they're going to get."

Harry glanced around at the company. "Six of us," he said. "This is going to be a tight fit around the pensieve. Is there anyone here who could wait until next time?"

"And miss this?" said Ginny, laughing herself now. "Not on your life!"

It was fortunate that Ginny and Professor McGonagall were slim, and that Professor Flitwick was small. The six managed to crowd together in an intimate circle, Hagrid laying his arms across Harry's and Sprout's backs to make more room, and on Harry's count they entered the pensieve.

Before anyone else could react, Harry hurried toward Snape with the projectile weapons. "No opportunity for rocks," he blurted out, and stood aside.

McGonagall took a step towards Snape. "Severus," she began, her eyes filled with wonder, "how did ye…"

Snape exploded. "Witch!" he screamed. The pincushion he grabbed first would have knocked her pointed hat off if McGonagall hadn't seized the hat and held it to her head. "Harpy!" A pine cone brushed the skirts of her robe. "Wizened old hag!"

"Severus!" Flitwick started to remonstrate, only to be hit in the shoulder with a souvenir beanbag from Madagascar. "Severus, control yourself!"

Hagrid chuckled. "He is controlling hisself," he told Harry and Ginny. "Ya should see what he does when he ain't controlling hisself."

"Assassin!" Snape yelled at Flitwick. This time it was a dragon knuckle bone that Flitwick fortunately dodged. "You murderous lump of putrefying goblin meat!"

"Severus, behave yourself!" McGonagall shrieked as she avoided a packaged deck of tarot cards. "You've no call to act like this! What did we ever do to you?"

"Besides try to kill me?" Snape shouted back. This time he picked up a real rock – a chunk of lava from Krakatoa, and Hagrid moved in to lift him and pin his arms before things got serious. "Let me go, you mountain of mediocracy!" Snape cried, kicking with all his might.

"Ya done blown off enough steam," said Hagrid. "Now ya got t' explain yerself."

"You.. put.. me.. down…!" Snape panted, twisting vainly in Hagrid's grasp. "You don't know these people! Homicide! Murder! Unprovoked attack! Killers!"

"Severus," said McGonagall with an effort, straightening her robes, "ye're being unreasonable. Ye were working for Voldemort. Ye were trying to catch Harry. I… we were trying to protect Harry. Ye canna blame us for that."

"You weren't protecting anything, you harridan. You were trying to kill me." Snape let himself relax. "Let go of me, Hagrid. I promise not to attack anyone." Hagrid put him down. "Admit it, Minerva, you attacked me with deadly force with neither provocation nor warning."

"Without provocation! Ye were about to take Harry. I couldna allow that."

"How could I take him when I couldn't see him?" Snape demanded. "All I wanted to do was talk to him. And you might have started with something nonlethal, a stunning spell maybe, instead of that slashing thing. Especially after you got reinforcements and it was four to one." He sighed bitterly. "Why is it always four to one?"

"You're not being truthful, Severus," Flitwick put in. "You were giving as good as you got. We had to protect ourselves, too, you know."

"I never once…!" Snape started to yell, then suddenly became icy cold. "You think so, do you? Let's find out who's telling the truth. One of you put a pensieve image in here, and we'll see whose version is more accurate. Which of you will it be? You were all three there."

The proposal met with silence as McGonagall and Flitwick exchanged glances. "Mine," said McGonagall with sudden resolution. "We'll look at my memory, and then ye'll see."

The six outsiders left Snape's memory, and McGonagall allowed Harry to remove a memory strand from her head. It coiled sinuously in the pensieve next to Snape's. The circle was formed again, and this time they entered a fifth floor corridor in the middle of the night. Only McGonagall and Snape were present, Harry noting with some interest that the image did not show Luna and himself under the Invisibility Cloak. A second later pensieve Snape was in their midst, but he said nothing.

The conversation was about patrolling the corridors. Then memory Snape asked if McGonagall had seen Harry Potter because if so, he had to insist…

What Snape was about to insist was never known for, without warning, McGonagall lashed out at him with a cutting spell that he blocked with a shield. She flung a lasso of fire, and he turned it into a cool snake that undulated on the floor, striking at no one. McGonagall blasted the snake into daggers, and Snape defended himself with a suit of armor that absorbed their deadly impact. He did not return any of the attacks.

Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn entered the scene. McGonagall stood erect, her wand outstretched as Snape cowered behind the armor making no offensive move. "You'll do no more murder at Hogwarts!" screamed Flitwick, sending a now animated suit of armor against Snape, who struggled out of its clutches and, instead of fighting back, dodged into a nearby classroom. McGonagall entered in time to see him look around frantically for shelter and then, as her wand rose to strike him again, dive for a window that shattered at the impact. Not once had he raised his wand against her.

The last thing they heard as the memory ended and flung them back into Hagrid's hut was McGonagall crowing, "Coward! COWARD!"

McGonagall sat heavily in the nearest chair. "That's not how it happened," she insisted over and over. "It didna happen like that. We were fighting, dueling. He was trying to get to Harry. It wasna like that…"

Flitwick, too, was in shock. "He was attacking you. I was certain he was attacking you. I've never attacked a man who wasn't fighting… prepared… You were dueling, I was sure of it."

"Maybe we should look at it again," said Hagrid. "I'm sure the second time it'll get it right. It's Professor McGonagall's memory, ain't it? It's got no business remembering somewhat that she don't remember."

"He wasn't fighting," said Ginny flatly. "You were attacking him, and he wasn't fighting back. I think you need to get right back into that pensieve and talk to him. He's the one that nearly got killed."

"The lass is right," said Hagrid. "The longer ya wait, the worse it'll be." He shepherded them back into a circle and back into the Great Hall with its Christmas splendor. Snape was sitting at the end of the Hufflepuff table waiting. He said nothing at their appearance.

"Severus," McGonagall steeled herself for the admission, "Severus, I'm sorry. Ye were right and I was wrong. There was no duel. I attacked ye, and ye gallantly refused to fight back. All I can say is that at the time it seemed to me otherwise. Is there no way I can make amends?"

"And I," said Flitwick. "I don't know why I thought you were attacking Minerva, but I did. I'm sorry, Severus. Can you forgive me?"

In the silence that followed, Hagrid murmured, "It ain't the time t' be going all pig-headed, now. You be a man, lad, n' tell 'em ya forgive 'em."

"First," said Snape, his voice oozing irritation, "what does forgiveness at the drop of a hat have to do with being a man? Second, what about me? Here I've been tormented for months with the knowledge that three people who've known me most of my life (well, half of it in Pomona's case) were willing to hound me out of Hogwarts like a rabid dog, to take my life…"

"You haven't been tormented for months," Harry pointed out. "You only woke up a week and a half ago. Less."

"What does measurable time have to do with it?" Snape exclaimed. "You know, you did the same thing about Sirius trying to kill me, too. I nearly died, and you called it a… a prank!"

McGonagall was aghast. "Sirius Black tried to kill you?" she cried. "When did that happen?"

"He tried to introduce me to Remus Lupin during the night of a full moon. It was our sixth year. Dumbledore never told you that?"

"No," said McGonagall, shaking her head in disbelief. "He did not. Did he ever mention it to you, Filius?"

"Not a word," said Flitwick.

"I'm not even going to ask if he told Slughorn!" Snape shouted to the ceiling. "I spend the rest of my life having nightmares about being torn apart by wolves and no. One. CARES!"

McGonagall was silent, but she exchanged a glance with Flitwick. It was Flitwick who spoke. "Do you feel ill, Severus?"

"Ill? Oh my, no, why should I feel ill? Disillusioned, maybe. Irate, perhaps. How about enraged or infuriated! But ill? No, I don't think I feel ill."

"Severus," ventured McGonagall, "I'm not sure how to phrase this but… are ye certain that ye're… how shall I put it… all there?"

"What," said Snape, turning slowly to face her, his voice deadly, "is that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that, well, I've never seen… I've never known ye… to be so emotional before. It's no' like yerself."

Snape stopped, staring at her. "I've always felt strongly about things," he said at last. "My feelings are no different from what they always were."

"That may be," responded Flitwick, "but you never expressed them this… passionately before."

"I didn't?" Snape looked bewildered. "I'm sure I haven't… I mean I know I…" He stood for a moment as if listening to an inner voice. "There are no doors," he said at last. "The doors are gone."

"What are you talking about?" asked McGonagall.

"I think I know," said Harry. "Professor, would you look me in the eyes?"

"Are you about to make pompous pronouncements concerning my honesty, you publicity hound?"

"Not a one. I want to see if I can see the doors."

"What doors?" said Snape.

"You know what I'm talking about!" Harry let his voice rise in frustration. "It's how you hide your thoughts in occlumency. I'm guessing that it's those doors that are gone. It's logical, isn't it? You died. Part of your mind and your personality survived, but maybe not everything. And the things that survived aren't connected in the same way. Your knowledge, your reasoning, and your recent memory are here, but everything from before you died is floating around you, and you have to enter it in order to remember it. There aren't any compartments left to shut things into. That's why there aren't any doors."

Snape turned away. "I really wish you wouldn't exercise your juvenile tendency to leap to conclusions by trying to psychoanalyze me, Potter," he said. "Aside from being utterly inaccurate, it's embarrassing."

"Still," Harry pressed him, "you have to admit that since you woke up…"

"Wonderful!" Hagrid exclaimed. "It's all solved. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were mistaken and now they're sorry. Professor Snape acknowledges their admission and accepts their apology. Problem solved, case closed. What say we talk about lunch?"

Nearly everyone was more than willing to listen to Hagrid at that point. Only Harry, like a terrier with a bone, pulled Hagrid aside a moment later. "You can't end it like that, Hagrid. He's going to have to face it someday."

"Right," said Hagrid. "We'll schedule it for right after you've faced all your boogiemen. Meanwhile, you just remember that I been caring for him since way before you was nothin' more 'n a gleam in yer father's eye, and if ya push him too hard when he's fragile, I'm gonna hafta sit on ya."

It was way too early for Hagrid's suggestion of lunch, so everyone stood around awkwardly, not exactly sure what to say or do. It was Flitwick who managed to start the first conversation, and he did it by talking about inanimate objects.

"What are the physical limitations down here, Severus? You have plates and cups on the tables, but Harry had to bring things for you to throw at us. Why is that?"

"The mere act of residing in a place," Snape replied, "does not confer immediate enlightenment. You know that." He watched with evident pleasure as Flitwick reddened, then relented. "I can use things only insofar as I do not manipulate them. I can sit on the benches or tables here. I can lean against the walls. The less self-consciously I do it, for some reason I do not understand, the easier it is. If I concentrate on trying to touch the table, my hand goes through it. If I just sit on it without thinking, I can. I do not know why. I cannot pick up or move anything. Especially things that should be alive. Plants, animals, people… I can't touch them at all. My hand goes right through."

Flitwick studied the items brought in from Hagrid's hut. The ones Snape had not thrown were lying on the Hufflepuff table. He picked the beanbag up from the floor and set it on the table as well. "What we bring in is the same," he observed. "We can utilize the space. We cannot alter it, but we can utilize it."

McGonagall had been gradually drawing nearer. "Ye canna touch anyone, Severus?" she asked, and her voice was tinged with sadness. "Not anyone at all?"

"It is scarcely a hardship, Minerva. If you recall, I was not in the habit of going around clutching at people."

"Can I touch you? May I?" she held a hand out, barely brushing the sleeve of his robes. He didn't object, nor did he draw away, and after a few seconds she laid her hand on his arm. "There," she said. "You can touch me."

"Which must mean," observed Flitwick, "that you are as real as we are, not like the shadow images of the memories. The major difference between us, I imagine, is that we have bodies outside to return to…"

"And I don't," Snape finished for him. There was a question hovering between them, but Snape didn't ask it, and the others were willing to wait until he was ready.

Sprout's face brightened a bit with a new thought. "Is there any way you can see what's outside?" she asked.

"We've done that," said Harry, glad of a more cheerful topic. "You can pull pensieve images to the surface to study them from outside. If he leaves this memory and just floats by himself in the pensieve, I can pull him to the surface and he can look around."

"Ye've done this?" McGonagall asked, and the question held more for her than casual interest.

"I have seen the inside of Potter's front room," Snape informed them, "the inside of the cage he refers to as his office, and the performance of a contortionist at Covent Garden. I must say that I preferred the contortionist."

"Can ye talk to people when ye do this?" McGonagall continued. "I mean, could ye look across the room, see someone on the other side, and hold a conversation?"

"Certainly," said Snape. "I don't see why not."

"This is marvelous. We may be able to kill two birds with one… Och, I am sorry, Severus. A poor choice of metaphor. We may be able to solve two problems… Harry, Severus, I should like to invite the two of ye…" McGonagall looked around at the group. "Well, all of ye, of course. Invite ye to come up to my office. There's someone else who needs to join the conversation. If he wants to, that is. So far he's been mighty close-mouthed and refuses to talk to me."

"Who's that?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Albus, of course. I thought at first maybe 'twas because I was only Acting Headmistress, but the appointment went through last August. The others – Nigellus, Dippet – they'll speak to me, and they'll chide Albus, but he won't say anything. Maybe if he had a chance to talk to Severus here…"

"What about it?" Harry asked Snape, more excited than he would have imagined at the prospect of talking to Dumbledore again. "Would you be willing to speak to Professor Dumbledore?"

"I don't know," Snape said, turning his back on them to face the empty high table. "There's a lot of water gone under that bridge, too. It wouldn't be pleasant."

McGonagall took Snape's arm and turned him to face her, holding him by the shoulders. "Severus, the four of us have just had a chance to confront that day. We haven't worked it all through yet, but at least we've started. Albus hasn't had that chance. Think, laddie. When was the last time he saw ye? Alecto Carrow'd just called Voldemort because Harry was in the castle, and ye went into the corridors to find him. Albus never saw nor heard from ye again. I told him the truth. I stood before that portrait of him sleeping, and I told him that we'd driven ye from the castle and that ye were dead. He hasna woken up since. Can ye talk to him?"

"Why doesn't my portrait talk to him?" Snape asked. "I was headmaster. My portrait's on the wall, too. Isn't it?"

The silence stretched out too long. "I see," Snape said with a slightly twisted smile. "I wasn't good enough. Nothing I've ever done has ever been good enough. Total incompetents are good enough to be portraits, but not…"

"'T was the appointment, Severus," McGonagall broke in. "They pointed out that certain members of the Board had been under Imperius spells when ye were appointed, and the appointment was officially considered invalid."

"How convenient," said Snape.

"Will ye speak to Albus?"

"I suppose so. With luck, he'll stay asleep. Do I have your permission to tell him exactly how I feel about him? It is your office now, after all, and I wouldn't want to be out of line."

"D' ye promise to watch yer tongue and not use language that would make me blush?"

Harry caught the look that passed between the two as they stood there negotiating. He caught it and wondered why he'd never noticed it before. A glance at Flitwick and Sprout told him they knew perfectly well what was not being said. Harry guessed at the joke in the instant before Snape responded.

"Why, Minerva. I don't think I even know language that bad." Both of them were smiling.

"See how much I trust yer judgment, ye wicked boy." McGonagall patted Snape's arm. "Will ye speak to Albus?"

"Very well, Minerva. I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore. I cannot guarantee that he will speak to me."

The six left the pensieve memory, and Harry returned the strand to the flask. He had to almost forcibly remove the flask from Flitwick's hands at that point, since the Charms professor was intent on examining it. "Later, perhaps?" Flitwick said, and Harry nodded.

Getting up to McGonagall's office was an undercover maneuver of the first order, for Harry did not want to be seen and drawn into any greetings, meetings, or conversations. Now that the group had grown beyond himself, Ginny, and Hagrid, however, there were two people he wanted to talk to: Neville and Luna. Ginny went off to find them while Harry hid under Hagrid's coat to climb the stairs. McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout contrived to stand and move in such a way that the lump at Hagrid's side was, for the most part, covered.

Ginny was waiting with Neville and Luna at the foot of the spiral staircase. McGonagall led the way into the office, and Harry noted with some shock that she'd moved all of Dumbledore's instruments and gadgets into display cases, and the office was arranged to receive guests, with a tea service on the sideboard and the chairs and sofas set up for group conversation. The portraits had been clustered closer together, and more cheerful paintings hung on the other walls. There was an attention to delicate detail and touches of color that indicated a woman's hand. One thing she had not done was decorate in plaid.

"Is there something wrong. Professor?" Neville asked. Ginny had not told them why they were being summoned.

"No dear, nothing at all," replied McGonagall. "We just thought you'd like to say hello to an old friend." On cue, Harry stepped out from under Hagrid's coat.

"Harry!" Neville cried, and threw his arms around Harry to hug him. "It's good to see you again!"

Luna was a touch more restrained. "Does this mean the porlocks are migrating farther north?" she asked. "That could have a negative effect on precipitation. I should let my father know."

"I haven't seen any porlocks," Harry said gravely. "If I do, I'll be sure to let you know. I actually came up for another reason, but I couldn't leave without seeing you two." He removed the flask and pensieve from his briefcase and set them on McGonagall's desk. "I need to prepare you for this," he said. "It's going to be a bit of a shock."

"Have ye been listening, Albus?" asked McGonagall of the center portrait where Dumbledore slumbered. "Harry Potter's come visiting and would like to talk to ye. And he's brought another guest ye'll be wanting to speak with, too. Wake up, now."

Harry looked at Neville and Luna, but he was also talking for Dumbledore's sake. "You already know that I learned how to defeat Voldemort because as he was dying, Professor Snape gave me all his memories. Well, it seems he gave me something more than his memories, even though I don't think he meant to. What we have is his… I don't know exactly what to call it. It's like his personality, his mind, his 'self.' It isn't just a passive image. He knows us, knows what happened; he's aware of what's going on. He's in there with his memories, and we can see and visit him through the pensieve."

Neville didn't look happy. "I don't think I want to talk to Professor Snape," he said. "We didn't get along."

"You don't have to talk to him," said Harry. "He's here to talk to Professor Dumbledore." He opened the flask. "We're in the office," he told its contents. "Get ready. I'm bringing you out."

First the memory strand undulated in the pensieve, and then the little gray mist separated from it and settled in the bottom of the basin. Harry touched the mist with his wand, and Snape hovered above the surface of the pensieve, small and slightly translucent. He looked around with considerable interest.

"Excellent, Minerva. You've done a splendid job with the decor. The Monet is a wonderful touch…" Snape stopped, and when he spoke again, the tone of his voice had changed. "Potter, what are they doing here?" He was looking at Neville and Luna.

"They're friends of mine," said Harry apologetically. "I wanted to see them while I was here. It's nothing to do with you."

"You may think it has nothing to do with me, but I beg to differ. My presence is not widely known, and the less widely known it remains, the better it is for me. I did not give you permission to reveal it to these persons."

"Is that because you're involved in the porlock migrations?" Luna asked, not the slightest bit intimidated by the little figure's cold manner. "I can certainly understand why the Ministry would want to keep it a secret."

Snape glared at Luna, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Porlocks," he informed her, "Have been fleeing Dorset in droves since 1774. It was a major cause of the American Revolution."

Luna grinned gleefully, knelt down next to her book bag to extract a notepad, and quickly jotted down the information. "May we quote you," she asked, "or would you like the attribution to be 'informed sources tell us?' We can do it either way."

"I'll be an informed source," said Snape. "We don't want to cause too much panic amongst the breeders of polo ponies, now do we?"

Luna shook her head and jotted down more notes.

"And you, Longbottom," Snape continued, turning to Neville. "Where were you during the second half of the spring term and all of the summer one? I hope you didn't expect to graduate cum laude. We really do need physical presence at a desk for that. Or were you hoping to pass your NEWTs by proxy?"

"I… eh… was avoiding the Carrows, sir," Neville stammered. "It… eh… well, it seemed…"

"Like the logical thing to do at the time?" Snape prompted. "Ordinarily I would agree with you, but it would be wrong of me to appear to sanction truancy. You understand, of course?"

Neville nodded. Snape seemed pleased to have asserted his authority over both students and visibly relaxed. It was time to turn his attention to the dozing portrait of Dumbledore.

"I see," the image of pensieve Snape said snidely, "that those who once flaunted their superiority of intelligence – in all senses of the word – have retreated into dull somnolence. Very appropriate, now that the truth has been revealed via Ms. Skeeter and the _Prophet_. I would hide myself in shame, too, if my perfidy had been shouted to all the wizarding world. Of course, I would have to have been perfidious and, unlike certain others, I can actually claim with some honesty that I was not."

There was no response at all from any of the portraits, except that Phineas Nigellus seemed to be peeping between half-closed eyelids.

"Have you heard, Minerva," Snape continued, "that the Ministry is contemplating erecting monuments to both Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour for their courageous defense of the wizarding world against the depredations of Lord Voldemort? Fudge, of course, for his unparalleled strategy in lulling Voldemort into a false sense of security by pretending he did not believe in the Dark Lord's return, and Scrimgeour for…"

"Ahem!" coughed the portrait of Dumbledore. "Do I detect the dulcet and lilting tones of Severus Snape? An amusing scoundrel, Headmistress McGonagall, but an untrustworthy one. Recalcitrant and defiant, as I recall. I would not confide in him if I were you."

"You pompous old fake," said Snape. "I'll bet you're just egotistical enough to expect you can brush off every headmaster who comes after you. If I were on the Board, I'd take the portrait down and burn it."

"Then we are fortunate, Severus, that you are not on the Board, for that would be a grievous error."

"Why? What good have you been doing anyone since last May?"

"Well I... I have been on vacation, and a well-earned vacation it was, after all my hard labor. Certainly better deserved than to have you come in and…" The portrait smiled. "It is good to see you, Severus. It is even better to hear you. I have missed that acid voice and sharp point of view. How is it, my friend, that you have survived?"

"I don't think I have. Not all of me at any rate. I am bodiless and incorporeal, but you would know all about that. Except that you may travel through chocolate frog cards, and I am confined to a porcelain basin."

"A porcelain basin? How droll. I had thought being a portrait was the depths to which a conscious entity could sink. It appears I was wrong."

There was silence. The room waited expectantly, but the silence continued until it began to be louder than any talking.

"Well," said Hagrid suddenly, "it's been a great morning, us gettin' all together like that, but I got things t' do and I'm sure these young people do as well. Homework and such. Come on, Neville, Luna, Ginny…" Hagrid was making gestures to shepherd them out and jerking his head toward the door. "I'd be happy t' escort ya down to Hufflepuff house, Professor Sprout. I know ya got work t' do down there…"

"But I want…" Sprout began, then stopped. "Oh. Yes. Of course. Filius, I have some… Chinese chomping cabbage I wanted to show you…"

"I'm not interested in cabbage," protested Flitwick as Sprout tried to steer him towards the door.

"Yes, you are, Filius," pronounced McGonagall with the indisputable authority of a headmistress. "And so am I. Come along, boys and girls." She was shooing the students out ahead of her.

"Thank you, Minerva," said the portrait of Dumbledore, "but it might be best if Harry stayed. That is, if it is all right with you, Severus."

The pensieve image nodded, and Harry paused by the door while the rest filed past him down the spiral staircase, then he closed the door but remained standing next to it.

"This is so awkward, Severus," said the portrait sadly. "I should be offering you a seat and pouring you a goblet of mead."

"I can get the mead," Harry said, "but I think the professor would have to go back into the pensieve to drink it."

"Drink?" said Dumbledore. "I do not understand."

"I'm not a memory in this thing," Snape explained. "I move about freely. I can… Potter brings me newspapers and food. I don't need to eat or drink, but I can taste it. It's something to look forward to."

"Bless me!" cried Dumbledore, "That could mean… Harry, please look in the middle drawer of the desk on the left hand side. If Minerva has not removed it, there should be a small portrait of myself there."

Harry hurried over to the desk and took out the portrait. It was empty, but almost instantly Dumbledore moved from the wall into his hand and smiled up at him.

"There," he said. "Packed and ready to travel. Do you think that you could carry me into the pensieve? It will be easier than speaking from the wall, and Severus will be more comfortable."

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded. He looked over at Snape. "Is there a good memory in there?" he asked. "I can let you change it if you want."

"No," said Snape. "The memory is fine. Long and quiet." He vanished from the surface and reentered the wisp of gossamer smoke. Harry held Dumbledore's portrait tightly and fell into the basin…

It was Dumbledore's office the way it used to be. Memory Dumbledore was not there, but memory Snape was. He was sitting next to the fire reading, and his neck was in a brace. Harry paid no heed to him, however. His whole attention was for the tall, majestic figure of portrait Dumbledore standing beside him, a portrait no longer.

This newly re-formed Dumbledore was staring down at hands that trembled slightly. Then he looked up and around. Pensieve Snape was standing by the door, Dumbledore crossed the distance between them in three swift strides, folding his arms around Snape in a loving embrace, like the joyful father receiving the prodigal son, who had been dead and was alive again.

"Oh, Severus, you have no idea how I grieved when you did not return that night. And then to find… I was furious with Minerva…" Dumbledore stopped and turned to Harry, his eyes glistening with tears. "Harry, do you think you might go outside and pour three glasses of mead and return with them here? I believe this calls for a small celebration."

Setting the small pensieve picture frame on a table, Harry accepted his commission gladly, thankful for the opportunity to leave Dumbledore and Snape to exchange a few words alone. He took his time pouring the mead, then entered the pensieve holding two of the glasses. Dumbledore and Snape were standing in the middle of the room, talking quietly.

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore, accepting his. "But you will join us as well. We have been bound together in a fateful enterprise for many years. We should be together now."

When Harry returned with not only his glass, but the bottle of mead as well, Dumbledore insisted that they all sit. "How much time do we have?" he asked Snape.

"Several hours," Snape replied. "I didn't have a wide choice of occupation that day."

"Why are you wearing a neck brace?" Harry asked.

"This is 1995," Dumbledore said. "Cedric Diggory has died, and Severus has recently returned from his first meeting with the risen Voldemort. The brace is due to certain… damage he sustained during that meeting. Now, as this is about to be the first thing that has passed my lips in a year and a half, what shall we drink to?"

"Confusion to the enemy?" Snape suggested.

"But what enemy have we now left?" Dumbledore inquired. "Tom Riddle has been defeated."

"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death," said Harry. "What about that enemy?"

Both Dumbledore and Snape looked uncomfortable. "Where did you hear that, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"I went to Godric's Hollow. It was written on my parents' tombstone. The thought gave me courage when I believed I was at the end. I thought maybe with my own actions I could destroy… well, not death exactly, but…"

"Alas that I did not understand earlier, when I was closer to your age," Dumbledore sighed. "Alas that I still did not understand two years ago when I made a foolish experiment with a dangerous dark object. Death is not an enemy, Harry, nor is it a friend. It is a state of being, like life, that simply happens. It is an event, as birth is an event. Why, I wonder, do stories tell us of people conversing with Death when they never tell us of people conversing with Birth? And yet birth is far more traumatic and potentially tragic than death is, certainly for the person being born and dying."

"Let's drink," said Snape calmly, "to the future of Hogwarts. Otherwise we'll have to sit here listening to philosophy for the next two hours."

"To Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, smiling, and the three raised their glasses. "Now you must explain to me why you did not come visiting sooner, Harry, and why you kept the news of Severus's presence a secret for so long. I have, as I have mentioned, been extremely upset with Minerva for some time. It has colored our entire relationship as Headmistress and portrait."

"I think it was maternal instinct," said Snape. "Minerva, I mean, not me or Potter. She was trying to protect him and saw me as a threat. She has admitted that she may have overreacted."

"And I've been busy," Harry added, somewhat lamely, "plus you wouldn't wake up. There wasn't much point coming to talk to a sleeping portrait. As for the professor, he didn't appear until last weekend."

"And how did that happen?"

Harry repeated the story of the leaking memories, of going to Diagon Alley, of the catalyst that apothecary Grindstone had added in order to untangle the mass of thoughts, and the recent discovery that there might be something significant about the green coffin-shaped flask itself. "Professor Flitwick can scarcely keep his hands off it," Harry finished. "I'm afraid he thinks it's some kind of long-lost treasure."

"If it is what Professor Flitwick believes it to be," said Dumbledore, "it is both long lost and a fabulous treasure. I wonder how Silas Grindstone happened to come into possession of it. I wonder if he ever had an inkling of what he held."

xxxxxxxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

_The Soulstone Coffins_

Harry took a clue from Dumbledore's nod and refilled their glasses with mead. Dumbledore leaned back in his wing-back chair, clearly relishing the comfort it gave him. "Neither of you will probably know any of this, since Harry managed only a Dreadful on his History of Magic OWL, and Severus you, as I recall, got a mere Acceptable. The tale goes back nearly two hundred years before the founding of Hogwarts, and starts on the edges of Arabia, in an area that today is a major producer of petroleum, but which then and for many centuries afterwards, would still be under water. The first major actor in the story is Saqr ibn Najjar."

Dumbledore paused to look at both Harry and Snape, and he seemed to be expecting a reaction of some sort to the name. He didn't get it and sighed. Harry, though regretting his own ignorance, was relieved to see that Snape didn't seem to catch the reference either.

"Saqr ibn Najjar is the first recorded muggle-born wizard in history," Dumbledore explained. "Of course there must have been muggle-borns before him, we simply do not know their names. His was written down. As a teenager, he was neither a carpenter like his father nor a hawk as his own name would seem to imply. Rather he, like many of his neighbors, was a pearl diver, eternally hoping one day to find that pearl of great price that would make him a wealthy man.

"One day, while diving with others in a particularly fruitful cove, he snagged not an oyster but a stoppered jar. Concealing it in his clothes, he took the jar back to his hut, hoping that it might contain one of the Djinn of legend. What it contained was a Djinni's child. Now the Djinn are creatures of smokeless fire, and should not have children, but this was the offspring of a Djinni and a water spirit, and its form was that of smoke.

"Saqr ibn Najjar was no fool. He reasoned that the Djinni itself, fearful of the thing it had begotten, had placed the creature in its bottle. He was in a dilemma. To release the child would anger the Djinni. Not to release it would anger the water spirit. He now imitated his namesake the hawk, and flew as fast and as far as he could north, away from the sea, until he reached the fabled city of Samarkand. He took the bottle with him. I imagine he considered it a kind of insurance.

"It was in Samarkand, among the great community of witches and wizards there," Dumbledore continued, "that Saqr ibn Najjar discovered that he, too, was a wizard. It explained a great deal, most notably his success at pearl diving and his ability to recover an artifact hidden by a Djinni. Nothing could be further from his old marshy home by the sea than this fabled city of the central Asian steppes, and yet Saqr ibn Najjar managed to find for himself an occupation similar to his old one. Instead of diving into the waters below the earth for pearls, however, he traveled southeast to the lofty peaks of the Hindu Kush to seek gems above the earth. Samarkand is on the Silk Road between east and west, you know, and business was good.

"It was while hunting in the mountains that Saqr ibn Najjar came across the second jar. This one was hidden in a crevice and buried under snow, but for a wizard with the talent for locating a treasure, I suppose it was child's play. This jar also contained an elemental child. Not fire and water, but air and earth. The first child was smoke. This one was swirling dust.

"Needless to say, Saqr ibn Najjar prospered. He himself apparently credited the two elemental cross-breeds for his luck, and safeguarded the jars with every warding spell at his disposal. One thing he had not factored into their preservation, however, is that even elemental children grow. After many years it became evident that if fire and water, air and earth, were not translated into larger containers, they would die.

"It may have been fortuitous, or it may have been fate, but at about this time Saqr ibn Najjar was prospecting far to the northwest, in the Ural mountains, and it was there that he came across the two great soulstones, roughly cylindrical in shape, each a cubit in length and the thickness of a man's thigh. No soulstones of such dimensions form naturally, and to add to the strangeness, one contained the element chromium and was emerald green in color, while the other included manganese and was a rich violet. The conditions under which the two stones had been formed had been influenced by magic, and they must surely have been the treasure of some magical being. Saqr ibn Najjar took them with him back to Samarkand."

"He stole them!" Harry cried. "He stole the stones just like he stole the jars with the spirits in them!"

"I suppose one could look at it that way," said Dumbledore. "One of the interesting things about the story, and very typical of these ancient tales, by the way, is that the original beings who placed the jars in hidden spots, or who caused the soulstone to crystallize in such huge forms, never appear. No one ever came looking for those stones, just as no one ever came looking for the elemental children. They simply 'were.'

"Saqr ibn Najjar's next journey was to the Carpathian mountains in Europe. He carried with him both the jars and the soulstones, and there he hired a kobold miner versed in the art of shaping stone. Well, to be frank, hire is a bit of a euphemism. He kidnapped one and would not release it until it fashioned the two stones into twin flasks for the elemental children. The kobold was not happy to be doing this work, especially when it discovered what the flasks would contain, and kept insisting that the two elemental beings would cause the death of Saqr ibn Najjar's whole family. That is why he carved them in the shape of sarcophagi.

"This prediction did not upset Saqr ibn Najjar in the least, since he was unmarried and childless. He was even amused by the coffin shapes and paid the kobold well. The two crystal flasks returned with him to Samarkand where they became immediately famous and were the pride of all of Saqr ibn Najjar's possessions. He prospered in everything he did, and eventually died at the age of one hundred seventy-two, surrounded by grieving friends. He never did have a family, but it seemed he never wanted one."

There was a pause. A rather long pause. Then Snape asked, "And then? What happened to the flasks after that? What happened to the beings that were inside them?" When Dumbledore merely smiled, Snape added, "I do have a valid interest in this you know, seeing that I may be living in one of those flasks."

"To be very honest, Severus, I do not know the rest of the saga of the soulstone coffins. Filius might. It is more his area than mine. I only know that they are named as one of the great treasures of good fortune that fortune hunters are always supposed to be seeking. Not only do they bring immense good luck and wealth, they are supposed to be able to contain a spirit and keep it alive forever. Or at least as long as the spirit remains in the flask. I rather believe that it is the spirit inside the flask that brings good luck and not the flask itself, but I am not the one who wrote the legends."

"I have a couple of questions," said Harry.

"I doubt that I shall be able to answer them," Dumbledore pointed out, "as I have just given you the sum total of my knowledge of the subject."

"What I want to know is," Harry continued as if Dumbledore were a fountain of untapped information, "what happened to the elemental children? And who inherited the flasks if Saqr ibn Najjar had no children himself? Does the other flask still exist? Who has it? How did this one get to England from Samarkand?"

"You know," said Snape sarcastically, "if you'd paid half this much interest to your History of Magic classes when you were supposed to, you'd have done better than a Dreadful."

"Yes, but then it didn't mean anything. Now it means something. We have to talk to Professor Flitwick!"

"No, Harry," said Dumbledore. "_You_ have to talk to Professor Flitwick. _I_ need to talk to Severus. Oh, do not pout, Harry! Severus and I have been a major part of each others' life for twenty-six years now, and have known of each other for twenty-eight, which is considerably longer than you've been alive. The last time I saw him, he was going to his death, and I never had a chance to even say good-bye. You go and talk to Professor Flitwick. But send Hagrid up. Hagrid is the third member of the twenty-six-year club, and he has a place here as well. Now, get along with you."

Harry sighed and did as he was told. Hagrid wasn't hard to find, he having kept vigil at the foot of the spiral staircase for over an hour. He looked up expectantly when he heard Harry's footsteps above him.

"Professor Dumbledore says you have to join them," Harry said, pleased despite his disappointment at the look of satisfaction that came over Hagrid's face.

"I expect, though, that ya'll be going to fetch Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, too. And Professor Sprout."

"Nope. I've got to find Professor Flitwick and ask him a lot of questions, but the only one invited into the pensieve is you." Harry started to step out of Hagrid's way, then thought he needed to add one more thing. "Get ready before you go in, Hagrid. It'll be a bit of a shock. In the pensieve, Professor Dumbledore can leave the portrait. He's himself again. I left the outside portrait on the desk, and you'd better hold it when you go in, just to be sure he has no trouble getting out."

"Right you are," Hagrid grinned and hurried up the stairs.

Flitwick was in his office right there on the seventh floor. Harry knocked and was bidden to enter. "Are we permitted to return?" Flitwick asked, and looked unhappy when Harry shook his head.

"I've come to talk to you about the soulstone coffins," Harry said. "Professor Dumbledore says you know loads more than he does, and it's probably important. He told us everything up until Saqr ibn Najjar died, but he doesn't know any more than that."

Flitwick looked happier. He motioned Harry to a seat, then settled back in his own raised chair, his hands folded comfortably on his stomach. Harry noticed that the desk was covered with open books. "Did the professor tell you that he had no family, so the question of the distribution of his possessions was the hottest topic in Samarkand?" Flitwick asked.

"I kind of guessed at that," said Harry. "I know I'm interested, and I'm not even getting anything."

"No? I'd say you got the prize of the lot. I have just now been looking up the details. The green coffin was made to hold a cross-bred elemental that was both fire and water. The second coffin was a deep violet, and was meant for an air and earth elemental. At the time of ibn Najjar's death, both elementals still resided in their bottles, and were the subject of great debate since several of the leading wizards of the city maintained that they were sentient creatures, and that it was a sin to keep them imprisoned.

"In the end, theology won over economics, and a pious old man named Hatim ibn Rashad was selected to release the elementals. One thing that everyone was certain of was that they didn't want it done in Samarkand. There were many stories about the anger of the Djinn who have been held captive too long; they were afraid the city would be destroyed. So Hatim ibn Rashad led a caravan of fifty wizards together with their muggle servants – oh yes, Harry, the wizard community of Samarkand was not a secret one – on a pilgrimage to find the right spot to free the spirits.

"Unfortunately, they were ignorant of two major things. The first was that they didn't know where the elementals had come from. Instead of going to the Persian Gulf and the Himalayas, they went west, until they came to the Caspian Sea, which they followed along its southern and western shores to a point where the Caucasus Mountains hug the water.

"The second thing they didn't know was that neither of the two elementals had ever been outside their confined homes. They'd been sealed in jars as infant spirits, and the only time they'd left was to enter the larger flasks. They had no idea what the outside world was like.

"Hatim ibn Rashad and a few brave colleagues stood between the sea and the mountains, and offered up prayers for the Djinn. They then poured the contents of the flasks into the water and onto the ground respectively, and stoppered the flasks again, preventing the elementals from going back inside. If they were expecting gratitude, they didn't get it. They got fear and rage. The account left by the survivors sounds like a water spout and a tornado, with a little ball lightning thrown in for good measure. The men in the ceremony were killed almost instantly, and then the two spirits attacked the caravan. Horses, men, camels, all scattered in the face of elemental fury. Only about a third of them ever made it back to Samarkand."

"What about the soulstone coffins?" Harry asked, his eyes wide. "What happened to them?"

"Abandoned and lost, only to resurface again in Constantinople over two hundred fifty years later," Flitwick answered. "They had been found, probably by a fisherman, and sold or traded many times until they reached a rich merchant, a wizard named Olympiodorus Xerus, who was a scholar and had heard of the legend of the Soulstone Coffins. He treasured them and was trying to discover how he might use them to house spirits of good fortune, when Constantinople was sacked by a western army in April 1204. Olympiodorus Xerus was killed, and his home pillaged by a Burgundian nobleman named Eudes of Dijon who carried everything in it back with him to France, including the Soulstone Coffins and Olympiodorus's wife Ariadne.

"Ariadne Xera knew, of course, what the two crystal flasks were. They were her major reason for not escaping from the muggle Burgundian in the first place. Now, wandless and a captive, she did her best to ingratiate herself with her captor, which wasn't hard to do since by all accounts she was still young and very beautiful. She convinced him to treat the Soulstone Coffins with respect and to guard them well, and the two got along very nicely indeed until he reached the Duchy of Burgundy again where his wife had been waiting for him for three years. She was not happy to see Ariadne."

"I guess not," said Harry, laughing. "Did she ever get a new wand?"

"She did, but by that time she'd run away with an itinerant troubadour in order to escape the servitude of the Lady of Dijon. Among the places they visited, singing and doing simple tricks for food, lodging, and some small coins, was the town of Orleans, which had a good-sized wizarding population. There Ariadne made herself known and managed to get a decent wand. Her troubadour was quite pleased to learn who and what she was, since it would improve the quality of tricks he could perform and increase the amount he was paid. The two of them returned to Dijon, stole the Soulstone Coffins, and fled north.

"All that we know after that is that the flasks remained in the possession of Ariadne's descendants, who eventually settled as merchants in the port of Harfleur. They were there in 1415, when the invading English army under Henry V took Harfleur. King Henry tried to keep his soldiers from stealing things, but he was not universally successful, and the Soulstone Coffins disappeared from history, probably brought back to England by one of the soldiers to be sold as valuable trinkets to someone who had no idea what they were."

"That was more than five hundred years ago," said Harry. "The people who had them probably didn't even realize they were magic. I wonder how that apothecary in Knockturn Alley got his hands on them."

"We don't know that he ever had them," Flitwick pointed out. "The two flasks may have been separated hundreds of years ago. It's more than likely that that was the only one he ever had. He knew enough to know it was expensive, but I doubt he ever had a clue as to exactly what he possessed."

"Lucky for me," said Harry. "Otherwise he'd never have sold it to me. Actually, it was more of a gift to Professor Snape. He knew whose memories were going into it, and he sold it to me for practically nothing. I thought it was glass."

There was a knock at the door, and Professor McGonagall stuck her head into the room. "We've been invited back to say good-bye," she told Flitwick. Then she saw Harry. "What're you doing here? I thought you were with Albus."

"I left," said Harry, "so that they could talk together, them and Hagrid. Dumbledore asked me to leave, but I'd have felt awkward staying in any case. Professor Flitwick's been telling me about the Soulstone Coffins."

"D' ye think that's what it is?" McGonagall asked Flitwick. "That would be a nice piece of history for Hogwarts to have on display." She frowned for a moment. "Of course, Severus does need it right now, doesn't he? You keep us in mind, though, Harry, if it should come to it."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry. He followed Flitwick out and rejoined Sprout, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, and they all went back up to Dumbledore's office. There was some chatting, with Dumbledore back in his portrait and the miniature Snape standing over the pensieve, but then it was time for Harry to leave. Ginny accompanied him to the gate where they had a private moment and another kiss, and then he stepped into Hogsmeade and apparated, but he didn't go home.

Instead, Harry went to Diagon Alley, and from Diagon Alley into Knockturn Alley.

"Oh, it's you," said Silas Grindstone, stepping into his shop from a back room at the sound of the bell over the door. "Are you buying this time?"

"I am if you have what I want," said Harry. "That bottle you sold me for the memories… It was originally one of a pair, and I was wondering if you had the other. I'd pay you well for it."

Grindstone's eyes lit up. "Come to recall," he said, "they were a pair when I was a boy. It was my grandfather's shop then. He only ever displayed one, the purple one, but I saw them both. He wouldn't sell it though, even if old Borgin did covet it."

"Do you still have it?" Harry asked, not trying to hide his interest.

"No. It was sold near fifty years ago when my grandfather died. My father let Borgin have it, and for a very handsome price. I should still have the record in the back. I can try to get it for you. On commission, of course."

Harry agreed, and Grindstone went into the back room to check his files. "Here it is," he said, returning with a small ledger. "December 21, 1953. Signed by Borgin's agent – T. M. Riddle."

Harry did not go right home from Knockturn Alley. Instead he went to Selfridges to get a sampling of different exotic foods, a sort of buffet, together with wine, cheese, and crackers. He apologized to Mrs. Purdy and locked himself in his rooms for the evening. He then took the flask and pensieve out of his briefcase, said "Find a nice place to eat. We need to talk," waited a moment, and entered the memory…

He was in a restaurant. By all appearances, it was a Greek restaurant. Harry stared around him in surprise, for the last place he expected to find Snape was a Greek restaurant. He started to check the patrons.

"Over here, Potter," said pensieve Snape, but he was too late. Harry had spied memory Snape at a table in the back talking to…

"Is that a girl?" he demanded. "Are you having dinner with a girl?"

"It is a woman, Potter. Now come this way. There is a table here that will be empty all evening…"

"You're on a date?"

"She's a Death Eater. She was assigned to me by Bellatrix Lestrange to keep me docile and in her camp. It didn't work, though not for want of Phina's dedication to duty."

"Her name's Phina? She's a beauty."

"Gaze all you want. She's going to be dead in a few months. A little action and a random slashing spell outside Grimmauld Place. And no, it wasn't Sectumsempra. It was a little hail of daggers that Bella favored. Hard to control though, as Bella found out that day. Pure accident. What they call 'friendly fire.' I hope you brought something good to eat."

"Yeah," said Harry, holding out the bag. Snape laid the table for them while Harry continued to stare at the flirtatious young woman with the long dark hair and warm brown eyes who was being instructed in the subtleties of Greek food while she tickled Snape's ankle with her foot. It was hard to imagine that she was dead. He couldn't help wondering…

Pensieve Snape seized his arm and pulled him away. "The answer is, 'none of your business.' Now sit down and tell me what's so important."

"Right," said Harry, piling food on his plate. "I went to Knockturn Alley to talk to Grindstone. I told him if he had the mate to your flask, I'd buy it. He said there'd been another one, a purple one, but that his father had sold it to Borgin and Burke's in 1953. The employee who actually picked it up from the shop was Tom Riddle. That was…"

"I know who that was," said Snape. "I knew him a lot better than you did." He rubbed his neck. "We had more than one intimate chat. Are you sure he picked up the flask?"

"He signed the ledger for it – T. M. Riddle. Grindstone said that Borgin had wanted the flask for a long time, but that his grandfather wouldn't sell. After his grandfather died, his father sold it."

"And the Dark Lord picked it up. That may be perfectly legitimate, you know. He was employed by Borgin and Burke for many years. most of his transactions were legitimate. Is that duck?"

Harry passed the slices of duck. "Do you think maybe he didn't know about the history of the flasks?"

"It's very likely he didn't. I understood from Dumbledore that he knew about the Elder Wand, but not about the Resurrection Stone or the Invisibility Cloak. The Dark Lord's interests could be very narrow at times."

"So what do we do?"

"When exactly was the flask purchased?"

"December 21, 1953."

"Interesting. On or about the Solstice. A little over forty-five years ago. Did Grindstone say which of the two was more interested?"

"Borgin. Old Borgin he called him."

"Well… he wouldn't have been so old then, but Grindstone would have been just a child. Of course, he could be talking about Borgin senior. Grindstone's isn't the only shop that's gone through more than one generation of a family."

"What do we do?"

Snape picked up a grape leaf stuffed with rice and bit off half of it. "First we find out if Messrs. Borgin and Burke still have the flask." He finished the dolma. "It may be they have it. You can arrange to buy it. It may be they have sold it. You can try to find out to whom, or you can leave that to Grindstone. It may be they never had it. That would be the worst case."

"How could they never have had it?"

"If the entire deal was handled through the agent, then it may have been the agent who was purchasing the flask. What better cover than to pretend you're buying it for a boss who doesn't know it's being bought?"

Harry paused, an empanada partway to his mouth. "You are devious. You really are. I bet you could sneak your way through anything."

"The only thing that is saving your sorry hide at the moment, Potter," Snape replied, "is the undisguised note of admiration in your voice. Otherwise," he sampled the pickled mushrooms, "I would be obliged to hex you into Easter break."

"But why would he buy it if he probably didn't know what it was?"

"Not knowing the history of the flask and not knowing what it was are two very different things. I do not have to know anything about the private life of Leonardo da Vinci to appreciate the uniqueness of Mona Lisa's smile. Knowing adds to my pleasure, of course, but it does not create it. By 1953, the Dark…" Snape took a deep breath and a swallow of wine. "Mr. Riddle. By 1953, Mr. Riddle had already made at least two of his Horcruxes and was surely attuned to the psychic qualities of items he contemplated as further Horcruxes."

"Do you think he made another Horcrux? That this was the eighth? Do you think he's still not dead?"

"I could not say. The name Voldemort doesn't cause my mark to hurt, but that's probably due more to my being incorporeal than anything else. You might test it with other former Death Eaters, however. The last time he disappeared, the marks remained at least marginally active. Whether they are or not is not conclusive of anything, but it does add a piece to the puzzle. As for turning the flask into a Horcrux, I would think not."

"Why not? It might be perfect." Harry took the cheeses out of another bag "I didn't know what to get, so I was kind of conservative. I did get one smelly one…"

"Stilton, I hope," said Snape, only to be disappointed by a brie. "Hardly smelly at all," he muttered, but was mollified by an old port. "You know, Potter, you could develop some rather expensive tastes, given half a chance. No, the… Riddle had already decided on his seven. A ring, a diary, four artifacts from the Founders, and himself. The only reason he later used Nagini is that he could not get a Gryffindor artifact, and you were an accident. He was not the type to increase his number to an unlucky eight just because he liked the color of the bottle."

"Well then what would he plan to use it for?"

"Horcruxes require a fragment of a soul split by murder. The soul fragment enters into the object and becomes its core, its soul as it were. The flask, on the other hand, is a container for something that is not part of itself. The flask is the flask, and my memories are my memories, and the two could be separated at any time by the simple expedient of unstoppering the flask and pouring the memories out. To separate Horcrux and soul fragment requires great power. No, Potter, the virtue of the flask is the energy it gives to the spirit within it. It is a wonderful storehouse."

"So Voldemort – Riddle – could have stored part of his own spirit in the other flask. It's in there, just waiting for the opportunity to come out and take over the world!"

"Slow down, Potter, and use your God-given ability to reason. I know you must have it in there somewhere under all the hormones. The flask was purchased in 1953. Assuming anything was placed in there, it came from the Riddle of 1953 and would be lacking everything that he learned after that. We might find ourselves facing a twenty-six-year-old Riddle with no organization of Death Eaters behind him and no knowledge of who is friend or who is foe. He would look at me and never know I'd been a follower because I wasn't born until 1960. On the other hand, he may have refreshed his persona just before going into battle at Hogwarts last year and be as up-to-the-minute as it is possible for a person dead eight and a half months to be."

"So what do we do?" Harry was leaning forward in his eagerness.

"What I would have given to see such enthusiasm during your occlumency lessons. It would have made things so much easier."

"I did learn," Harry said, both ashamed of his poor performance in fifth year and anxious to let Snape know it hadn't all been in vain. "Last year, while I was on the run, I remembered what you'd tried to teach me, and I was able to turn contact on and off a lot of the time. It was really kind of useful."

"I am pleased to hear that. It's good to know it wasn't just wasted effort. Now, as to what we do…" Snape thought for several minutes. "I know this is going to be hard for you to accept," he said after a while. "but for the next couple of days, I suggest you do nothing."

"Nothing!" Harry rose from his seat, nearly knocking the remains of the meal on the floor. "He's out there! Voldemort's out there! Getting ready to come back!"

"Hush," said Snape. "How is Riddle any different now that we've had this conversation from what he was before we had this conversation? He has not changed, only we have. Potter, this is important. If you want things to progress normally, don't show your hand. You've engaged Grindstone to find the flask so that you can buy it. His nosing around is nothing but business. If you add to it by nosing around yourself, you'll undercut him, and alert Borgin that something fishy is going on. He'll close up like a clam. Let Grindstone work for a couple of days. You may not have to do anything at all."

Harry had to concede the wisdom of this. They finished their meal, said good night, and Harry returned to his rooms to go to sleep. He did note that he was still very hungry, though when he tried the food that was on the table in his front room, it was dry and tasteless. He filed this in his mind as one more thing to talk to Snape about later.

Harry noticed the next morning when he went to work that the atmosphere at the Ministry had changed. In the atrium, several other wizards came over to quietly tell him, "Good work, Potter," or just shake his hand. Others nodded to him, said "Good morning," or gave him a thumbs up. He could only surmise that it had something to do with Friday's _Prophet_, and that Cora's announcement had been an object of discussion, or at least of thought, during the weekend.

There was a note on his desk: _Come to my office at once. Savage._ He glanced around at his fellow clerks, most of whom were watching him with some sympathy. "Is this a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked to the room in general, holding the note up where they could all see it, though he had the impression they'd read it before he had.

"We don't know," said Maud Rigby, and Harry wondered suddenly if she was related to the Baldric Rigby who was charged in the Biggerstaff case. "The messenger boy who brought it didn't look very happy."

Harry sighed. There was no point in delaying – that would only make things worse. Leaving his briefcase in the cubicle, he went to Savage's office. Cora Withyspindle was already there, as was a rather unpleasant-looking man in his early thirties, a florid-faced man, somewhat on the heavy side, with receding brown hair and way of glaring at you through narrowed eyes that seemed a permanent part of his face.

"There you are, Potter. About time. You know Ms. Withyspindle, obviously. This gentleman is Tiberius Maddox, the prosecutor in the Biggerstaff case. Tiberius, the 'famous' Harry Potter."

Maddox shook Harry's hand, then Savage invited them all to sit down. Savage was behind his desk, while the two attorneys were in comfortable overstuffed chairs. Harry was perched on a hard, high-backed wooden chair like a student in the principal's office. It didn't make him feel any more comfortable.

"I would like you to explain to Mr. Maddox, Mr. Potter," Savage began, "why you are interfering in a case that has not been assigned to you." Cora opened her mouth to say something, but Savage silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Let Mr. Potter speak for himself."

"It may not have been assigned to me," Harry said, "but I was assigned to it. I had to copy out the depositions onto the proper forms, and I needed to look through the file to get the correct spelling of some of the names. The handwriting wasn't too clear, you see and, well my looking at the file was part of my duty."

"Why did you question the way the case was being handled by counsel? That was not part of your job."

"When you have to copy every word, you notice things. I noticed that some of the witnesses entered the scene after the others. I noticed that one of the witnesses placed the defendant at the wrong table."

"What do you mean, the wrong table?" Maddox appeared more interested now, leaning forward in his chair.

"Four of the witnesses said something about the table being next to a wall. The fifth talked as if it was in the middle of the room. The fifth also had a different sequence of what was said and the words that were used. He even mentioned something from the case – breaking a big pot on the porch – that none of the others appear to have heard in the cafeteria, but it is recorded in the investigation. It sounded like maybe he knew the details from another source, and he hadn't been in the cafeteria. I thought it was worth bringing to the attention of the Defense."

"And why not bring it to the attention of the Prosecution? The Prosecution is equally interested in bringing the guilty to justice."

"I… eh…" Harry wasn't sure how to respond to this. He'd gone to the Defense because Snape's first priority was to show that Reginald Musgrave was innocent. It was only later that they'd found that Gordon Crabbe was guilty. Harry decided to look dumb. "I went to the Defense because I knew where that was. I wasn't sure where the Prosecutor's office was. I figured they would talk to each other."

"Mr. Potter is not being exactly candid with you," interjected Savage. "The truth of the matter is that he came first to me, not talking of discrepancies in the witnesses' testimony but of saving an innocent man. I questioned his obsession with rehabilitating notorious Death Eaters…"

"Professor Snape was working for Professor Dumbledore!" Harry cried, leaping from his seat. "He pretended to be a Death Eater to do his job! You should be…"

"Sit down, Potter!" Savage had risen himself, angry and letting it show. "There is no support for this claim other than your own advocacy. The Ministry hasn't challenged your statements since the Death Eater in question is dead and leaves no followers…"

"Isn't that proof he was working for Dumbledore? That he never tried to attract followers to himself…"

"Potter!" Savage shouted. "The purpose of this meeting was to demonstrate to Ms. Withyspindle that your advice is notoriously unreliable. I think we've done that. You may return to your work now!"

Which is what Harry did, his ambitions to be an auror now in serious question. What good was it to be an auror if you couldn't pursue justice?

There was another message on Harry's desk. This one was from Arthur Weasley in the Muggle Artifacts department. It was simple and straightforward. _George is sorry he lost his temper Saturday. Did you ask about the wand?_

_Drat!_ thought Harry, _I forgot all about his wand!_ He looked around. It was clear he couldn't contact Snape in the cubicle because just about everyone in the office pool was surreptitiously watching him. It would have to wait until the lunch hour. Meanwhile he sent a note back to Arthur telling him that he was looking into it.

At lunch, Harry went first to the men's room, waited a good ten minutes, and then returned to the office pool. It was empty, a fact he ascertained by individually checking every cubicle. He then took out flask and pensieve and entered a memory…

He was in the Slytherin common room. It was fairly crowded with students studying or talking, but one whole end was taken up by a group of older students who had commandeered the area near the fireplace for a raucous party. Memory Snape, about fourteen this time, was sitting in a corner far from the noise, his head bent over his homework. Close examination of the partying students revealed, among the unfamiliar, faces that Harry knew in their older incarnations – the Lestrange brothers, Avery, Mulciber and, in the center of the festivities, Bella Black.

"There you are, Potter!" pensieve Snape called over the conversation and laughter. There was a short flight of stairs going up to the wall entrance to the common room, and he was sitting on the steps. "Tell me, what day is it?"

"Still Monday, January 18," Harry replied, sitting next to him. "Just like this morning. It's lunch time."

"Excellent. Plenty of time to organize."

"Organize what?" Harry asked.

"Do you see that group over there celebrating?" Snape said. "The thing they are celebrating is Bella's sixteenth birthday." He paused, during which Harry said nothing. Then Snape continued. "Do you know that in all my life, I never had a birthday party?"

"Not even when you were a kid?"

"I was never a baby goat. Besides, my birthday came too soon after Christmas. There wasn't money to do things twice. Not that there were any children around who shared both my age and my social status. No, I never had a birthday party. I want one."

"Your birthday's past. It was nine days ago."

"Irrelevant. At midnight tomorrow night, it will be the exact midpoint between my birthday and your mother's birthday. I want a joint birthday party."

"You know," said Harry, "I never had a birthday party while I was growing up either."

"Excellent. That means we can have another party at the end of July. Now for this one we have to draw up a guest list, and each guest has to bring me a birthday gift and something to commemorate Lily's life. They have to be creative because there aren't many things I can use down here."

"What if no one wants to come?"

"Thank you, Potter. I can always count on you to give my morale a boost. Let me see… If you do not come, I shall never show you another memory of your parents."

"That's extortion!"

"I can do worse. I can show you your father and godfather in some of the most embarrassing circumstances…"

"You don't have to do that. You know I'll come."

"As for the youngest Weasley boy, Miss Granger might like to see what he and Miss Brown…"

"That won't work. She already knows about that."

"Really?" Snape thought for a moment. "Does she know about Miss Jones from Hufflepuff house? Or Miss Turpin from Ravenclaw?"

"You're joking!" Harry wasn't sure whether to be angry or laugh.

"It is true that I know nothing more than the isolated incidents, and Miss Turpin did end by slapping him, but we don't need to show that part to Miss Granger, now do we?"

"How would you get Professor Dumbledore to come?"

"Oh, I am not worried about the staff. It's the students who need to be coerced. George Weasley, for example."

"I think I know, because that's what I came to talk to you about. You did keep his wand, right?"

Snape looked at Harry in bewilderment. "How could I do that? I don't have George Weasley's wand."

"You do so have his wand," Harry insisted. You took it away from him that day you were collecting herbs on the moor, and I pulled him out of the memory before he saw your house. But you didn't give him back the wand."

Snape wrinkled his brow. "This is where not having instant access to one's own memory can be a pain in the…" He looked at Harry. "What are you sniggering at?"

"You never used to talk like that," Harry said, smiling.

"How do you know? Are you under the impression I saved up all my talking to do in your presence? If you want to know how I 'used' to talk, ask Hagrid or Dumbledore. Or McGonagall for that matter. Don't interrupt again. Now, what do I know about that wand…?"

Harry did not interrupt, and after a moment Snape said, "It was dropped on the moor for you to pick up. Did you go back looking for it? It's probably still there."

"As a matter of fact, yes I did, but I didn't find it. Maybe you could get that memory back again, and we could look together."

"Very well, Potter. You'll have to leave first and put me back into…"

Harry never heard the end of Snape's sentence, for at that moment he was yanked out of the pensieve and found himself standing in the office pool in front of an irate Mark Savage and several of his fellow clerks.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Savage yelled at Harry, to the great amusement of the spectators. "This is supposed to be an office!"

"It was lunchtime," said Harry. "I have a right to engage in personal pursuits on my lunch break. As a matter of fact," he glanced at the clock, "it's still lunch time and you're violating my right to a duty free lunch. I think that means you owe me compensatory time." In the moment it took Savage to digest this challenge, Harry turned, scooped up the memory, and returned it to the flask.

"That's a pensieve!" Savage yelled. "Whose memories have you got in that bottle?"

"They happen to be my memories," Harry countered, which was literally true since Snape had given them to him. "I can look at my own memories if I want to." He wasn't yelling exactly, but he was speaking somewhat loudly, hoping that a part of pensieve Snape could hear.

"Nobody stores his own memories in a bottle!"

"He does if something's been bothering him and he doesn't want it to distract him from his work!"

"I'm going to impound that bottle!"

"You do and I'll sue you for improper confiscation of private property!"

"They're not your memories!"

"What if I prove to you they are?"

That made Savage pause. "How are you going to do that?" he asked.

"I'll pull a memory out of the bottle, and you can look at it. It'll be one of my memories. Then you can leave me alone."

"All right," said Savage. "Do it."

"No," said Harry. "I want a third party to go with us. A witness. Somebody who doesn't work for you."

By now most of the office staff was back and watching. Savage was beginning to back down. "Who would you suggest?"

"Arthur Weasley from Muggle Artifacts," said Harry.

"He's a friend of yours."

"Are you suggesting Mr. Weasley isn't honest?"

Savage had to concede the point, and Arthur was sent for. It took a quarter of an hour, but he came, was filled in on the problem, and then Harry dipped his wand into the still-open flask. As he did so, he said a silent prayer that Snape was aware of the predicament. Otherwise, Harry's chances weren't very good. After all, what percentage of Snape's entire life actually had images of Harry Potter in it?

Harry, Arthur, and Savage bent down over the desk and entered the pensieve…

It was a staircase and a corridor at Hogwarts late in the evening, candles casting eerie shadows on the walls. Filch stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up into the emptiness, Mrs. Norris beside him. "Hiding are you? I'm coming to get you Peeves… You've gone and stolen a Triwizard clue, Peeves… Dumbledore'll have you out of here for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist…" He began to climb. As he did so, the unmistakable voice of Severus Snape came out of the gloom…

"Filch? What's going on?"

It was a curiously homey scene, Filch in his old flannel dressing gown and Snape in a long gray nightshirt, rather Victorian in fact. And it was a scene that no one, not in a million years, would ever guess that Snape had chosen to allow others to see.

As Filch tried to focus attention on the matter of Peeves, and Snape insisted that the real problem was an intruder in his office stealing supplies, Savage hissed into Harry's ear, "I thought you said this was a memory of yours."

"It is," Harry replied. "Do you see that step partway up, where the board appears broken? My foot's in there, only you can't see me because I'm wearing an invisibility cloak. In a minute you'll see the main reason I wanted to review this one."

Within the promised minute, Alastor Moody arrived on the scene, and it was clear that his presence intimidated Snape more than it did Filch. Snape tried to avoid the enchanted eye, clutched his left arm in pain, became defensive about his own actions… and yet it was Snape, unassisted by an eye, who nevertheless managed to read the clues and guess the presence of Harry in his cloak and attempt to locate him, only to be threatened by Moody into retreat.

"It's almost over," the real Harry warned. Snape swept off, Filch left with Mrs. Norris, and as a door slammed in the distance, Moody moved toward memory Harry muttering, "Close shave, Potter," and it was over; Harry, Arthur, and Savage were back in the office.

"There's Moody for you," said Savage. "Always did have a nose for a scoundrel."

"Mark," Arthur pointed out quietly, "that was Barty Crouch Junior, not Alastor."

"Oh, right. Well, Potter, I don't know what you'd want to review that for, seeing both Death Eaters are dead, but I suppose it's acceptable for you to review your own memories on your lunch break. I note, however, that lunch is now over, and it's time to get back to work!" This last was directed more at the others in the office pool, who scurried to their desks as Savage stomped from the room.

Arthur Weasley stayed for a moment. "Just between you and me," he whispered, "it was a bloody shame Robards got pulled into International Cooperation and Williamson put in charge here. Not a bad fellow, Williamson, but no spine. Also just between you and me, word is Robards is moving into the top slot for Law Enforcement later this month."

"Is that a good thing?" Harry asked. "Except for Moody, Tonks, and Shacklebolt, my experience with aurors hasn't been the greatest."

Instead of replying, Arthur nodded at the pensieve with its floating memory strand. "Is that what's got George's knickers in a knot?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Harry, laughing. "That's it."

"Then I suggest you ask him if having Gawain Robards in charge of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a good thing or not. He has a rather unique perspective on the matter. Now I need to get back to my own office. Don't forget about George's wand."

"No, sir. Thank you for coming, sir." Harry saw Arthur out, then returned to his cubicle where he put away memory strand, pensieve and flask, and did not take them out again until he was back home in his rooms in Avery Row, where he decided to have dinner before talking to Snape again.

Dinner was chicken and dumplings with asparagus hollandaise. Harry had long ago developed an intense passion for Mrs. Purdy and her culinary skill, for no one else of his acquaintance (and this included the Hogwarts elves) could turn chicken and dumplings into a dish to die for. He dug into his dinner until the edge of hunger was dulled, then entered into the conversation.

"What was social life like when you were at Hogwarts?" he asked Mrs. Nokes, sensing that she was always ready to compare her exemplary youth with the faults of the present. "I mean, when I was in fourth year, we had a dance, a Yule Ball, and it was kind of fun." He didn't mention that he'd sat out just about every dance.

"One dance in seven years! What could old Dumbledore have been thinking of? We had at least one dance every term. The two just before Christmas break and just before exams in June were the biggest. Were you there, ladies, the year we had the confrontation with Headmaster Dippet over a band that could play jazz and swing?"

"My goodness, yes!" exclaimed Arwella. "The dear old man thought fox-trotting and the tango were the latest thing, and all we wanted to do was jitterbug!"

"Those were the days," said Mrs. Nokes. "I don't think I ever had an empty spot on my dance card. The boys were always asking."

"Didn't you go to a dance with a date?" Harry asked, wondering what a dance card looked like.

"Well, you had an escort, of course, but you weren't supposed to dance but the first and last dance with him. In between dances you'd sit together, but the rest of the time you were supposed to mingle. That way you got to dance with all the good-looking boys."

"And there were some very good-looking ones," added Arwella. "Who was that boy in your year, the one with the smoldering dark eyes?"

"Reggie Lestrange?"

"No, the other one. The prefect. Riddle, that was his name. Tom Riddle."

"Oh," said Mrs. Nokes. "That one. A strange boy from the day we were sorted. Very polite, of course."

"How was he strange, ma'am?" asked Harry.

"Nothing specific. Just the way he'd look at people sometimes, like he was buying something in a shop. And the way he got all the other boys to do what he wanted. I wouldn't have said he was interested in girls though, for all his good looks. He'd go to the dances, of course, and play the game, but that's all it was to him. A game. Can I pass you something, Deirdre dear? You're looking a bit peaked."

"No, no," said Deidre. "I think it was the tennis this afternoon. Out in the sun too much, I suppose. I probably should lie down." She bid everyone a good evening and rose from the table.

"Sun?" Harry asked. "It's the middle of January."

Arwella tapped him playfully on the sleeve. "She doesn't play tennis here, silly. She went to Majorca. I'd say it was the travel more than the sun. She's not as young as she used to be, you know."

"I suppose that's true for anyone," Harry said, which reminded him of Snape who, for the rest of time would always be as young as he used to be. He excused himself and went upstairs, taking a bit of the plum tart with him. And some coffee of course. And a pencil and notebook.

Snape was in the Great Hall. School was clearly not in session, for the teachers were gathered around a table in the middle of the Hall. They were all the familiar teachers of Harry's day, including…

"That's Professor Quirrell without his turban!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Snape at his elbow. "Without his turban and before he went on sabbatical. Obnoxious little… But good at his subject. I hated the sight of him, but when he came back after that year away, all twitchy and stuttering, I rather missed the old Quirrell. Is that plum tart?"

Harry sat opposite Snape at the end of the Slytherin table while Snape ate his dessert and finished his coffee. "That was a good scene to pick for Savage," Harry said. "What made you choose it?"

"Other than the fact that I didn't have a lot of time, and it happened to be there?" Snape said. "It was full of things that weren't what they seemed. Moody, the map, you on the stairs… Someday I'll figure out how even Filch and Mrs. Norris weren't what they seemed and the picture will be complete. Now, how about my guest list?"

It was a short guest list, since it included only those people who already knew about the pensieve. Harry also pointed out the obstacle of its being too crowded around the table outside, and Snape conceded that this would be Harry's biggest problem to solve, but that he was certain Harry would be able to do it. Then Harry put Snape back in the flask to find the memory containing George's wand…

Back on the moor, while teenage Snape collected herbs, Harry and Snape tried to decide where they'd been standing when Snape threw George and relieved him of his wand. "I pulled him forward, hooked his leg, and then…" Snape stopped, a strange look coming over his face.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"It's in my robes," Snape said. "The wand is in the pocket in my robes where I put it Saturday."

"Then you did have it."

"No, I didn't. I would have noticed. It would seem that I cannot carry outside items from one memory to another."

"What about the food you eat? You're not leaving chunks of chewed plum tart all over the…"

"Don't be gross, Potter. Anyway, if I simply left the thing behind, you would have been able to find the wand by yourself. It would seem that in one sense I take it with me, but in another sense I do not. I would suggest that you not try to take this wand out with you. George will have to come to me, and he will need to be carrying his wand when he does."

"Well," said Harry, "I'd better be going. I have a lot to do."

"What do you have to do?"

"I have to get to Diagon Alley before everything closes and send the invitations to the party tomorrow night. Or did you change your mind?"

"No, I did not. By all means go, Potter. I shall be looking for the proper place to hold it."

Harry left the pensieve and went downstairs to apparate. He first went to the post office to hire owls for his messages, and then to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to tell George he could have his wand back.

"Tonight," George said, relieved. "As soon as we close up shop, I'm going back with you to get my wand."

"There you are," Snape said the instant Harry and George fell into the moor memory. "Tell me something, Weasley. Where has your wand been for the last couple of hours?"

"With me," George replied. "At least the part you haven't got."

"And when did you bring it here?"

"Just a minute ago."

"And yet this wand works quite well here. I've been testing it."

"How could you do that?" Harry protested. "You can't affect memories."

"Need I remind you that not everything here is a memory?" Snape pointed George's wand at his memory self and said, "Accio wand!" A wand rose from the ground and came straight to him. "This one is mine, not his. The wand works on things that came in from outside."

"Wicked," said George. "Could you do something to a person?"

"I don't know. Would you like to try? In the interests of science, of course."

"Right, Professor. Science. What'll we try? I could stun you, maybe."

"Don't be daft, Weasley. What good would cursing me do? I don't have a body on the outside. It would prove nothing. Now if I were to stun you…"

"Give it a go, then," said George, spreading his arms wide. "Let's see what…"

"No!" Harry cried. "You have no idea what that will do!"

"Exactly," said George, "and there's only one way to find out. Unless you'd rather volunteer. Go on, Professor. Stun me."

Before Harry could intervene, Snape pointed his own wand at George and cried, "Stupefy!' George crumpled to the ground.

Harry knelt by George's body. "Now you've done it! For all you know, you've gone and killed him!"

"No I haven't. I've stunned him. Go on outside like a good boy and see what happened out there." Snape nudged George's arm with the tip of one boot. "Go on. Before he wakes up and we have to do this all over again."

Harry went out. George had toppled over onto the floor, but aside from being unconscious, he appeared unharmed. Harry pulled George away from the table and chairs and laid him flat on the floor, then went for a pillow from his bedroom to put under his head. That done, he reentered the pensieve to tell Snape what had happened.

"Odd," said Snape. "You say he fell over and his body lost all contact with the pensieve? Why didn't he leave then?" George was quite clearly still there, lying on the moor. Snape waved his wand. _"Rennervate!"_ he said.

"Oy," said George, trying to sit up but obviously groggy. "I feel really strange."

"Potter!" Snape ordered suddenly. "Get out there and get Weasley back into contact with the pensieve. Hurry!"

Harry hurried. In his front room, George was twitching and jerking, but Harry managed to get him into one of the chairs. He pulled the pensieve close and pushed George's face into it. George shuddered, and then he was lifting his head on his own. "Wicked," he said after he stopped coughing. "I always wondered what an out of body experience felt like. Come on. We have to go back in and tell him."

There was no stopping George when he was determined to do something, and all Harry could do was go along. Back in the pensieve, George and Snape compared notes. "It would appear," Snape said, "that rendering the person in the pensieve unconscious can temporarily sever the connection with the body."

"But Hermione says you can't separate the person from his body in a pensieve."

"Well obviously, Potter, that's only because no one ever really tried before. I'd wager there are a lot of things we could do with this pensieve that no one's ever tried before."

"And we're not going to try them now," said Harry. "George is leaving. I'm going to go to bed. I have to work tomorrow, and we both need some sleep."

"I wish I could go to sleep," Snape said wistfully.

"Shall I cast a Dormite spell on you? If George's wand works here, mine should, too."

"I think not, Potter. With my luck you'd never find the right memory again to lift the spell, and while you may be tired of bringing me coffee, I am not. I shall see you tomorrow. Good night."

"Good night, Professor," Harry and George chorused, and then they went each to his own separate rest.

xxxxxxxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

_Tuesday, January 19, 1999_

The next day was a day like any other at the office until around three o'clock when the owl came. It carried a rather cryptic message asking Harry to meet Grindstone after work. Harry spent the next two hours on pins and needles, and was out of the office the instant the clock struck five.

"There you are," said Grindstone, appearing from the back storeroom at the sound of the bell. "I got a bill for you for my first services. Five galleons."

"What am I paying for?" Harry asked.

"Information," said Grindstone.

"Tell me the information, and I'll tell you if it's worth five galleons," was Harry's counter offer.

"You got a lot to learn," replied Grindstone, and started back into the storeroom.

"Wait a minute!" Harry cried. "What about the information?"

Grindstone paused, his upper body twisting to look at the counter where Harry stood. "I don't let green kids cheat me," he said.

"I'm not trying to cheat you," said Harry. "Why would you think that?"

"You commissioned me to do something for you. I went out and spent time doing your business at your request. You owe me for my time. I find a lot of folks don't want to pay a man for his time that they commissioned, and you look to be one of them. So I'll take my wages first, thank you."

Harry dug into his pocket and laid five galleons on the counter. "Now," he said, "what's the information?"

"Borgin doesn't have the flask. Never did. He didn't buy it."

"But your ledger says he did," Harry protested. "You have to know more than that if I'm paying five galleons for it."

Grindstone's smile was grim. "There's not a lot more to tell. Borgin's interested in the flask and sends his agent. The agent examines the flask, goes back, and tells Borgin it's a fake. Borgin scratches the flask from his list while the agent keeps bargaining for a good price. Then the agent buys the flask and signs for it. Borgin never asks about it because he doesn't know it's bought. My old man never asks about it because he thinks Borgin's got it safe. The agent comes back from time to time for the next few years, but never mentions the flask either. That's it. That's all I got for you. Like I said, you were paying me for my time."

"Where did the agent go?"

"How would I know? I never hardly saw him. He dealt in artifacts, antiques. This is an apothecary shop. We might get something that would interest him maybe once in two years. I only know that after a while he wasn't coming back anymore."

It was only after Harry'd apparated back to the boarding house that he remembered there was going to be a party that night. _I'll be able to ask for advice from Dumbledore,_ he thought. Then he remembered that he didn't have a present for Snape or anything to commemorate his mother. The group was supposed to meet in Dumbledore's office at eleven o'clock, and Harry was going to arrive empty-handed.

At first, rummaging through his things for some memento of his mother and thinking of the little scrap of paper in the Potions office, he considered taking Snape a photograph. Then he realized what a dumb idea that was. _He doesn't need a photo of her. He can watch her in a memory any time he wants. And all my photos have my dad in them. I'm sure he'd appreciate that._

Then, suddenly, it came to him. Checking the time and rejoicing that Selfridge's was open in the evening, he hurried to the great food halls, to the cheese section, and purchased, with the advice of a salesman, a large wedge of Stilton, a bottle of tawny port, a long loaf of French bread, a small cheeseboard, a special cheese fork and knife, and a small goblet. In a little gift basket, they looked very nice indeed.

Back in his own room he decided that the best thing to take for his mother was the entire collection of photos that Hagrid had given him. They weren't for Snape, after all. They were for the other people there to remember and commemorate Lily Potter. And Snape certainly couldn't object to something Hagrid had made, even if James Potter was in it.

Not sure if it was the right thing to do, Harry then changed into dress robes. By the time it was ten-thirty, he was ready. Throwing a warm cloak over the robes, then packing up all the things he had to carry, he went downstairs to the apparating yard, where his vortex and percussion would bother no one, and apparated to Hogwarts.

Hermione arrived at the gate at almost at the same time Harry did. She, too, was wearing a warm cloak, but from the look of her hair, she probably had dress robes on as well. The gate was unlocked, so they greeted each other quickly, it being too cold to stand still for more than a few moments, then trudged their way up to the castle. Hagrid was in the entrance hall waiting for them.

"Good t' see ya, Hermione, Harry," said Hagrid. He was not dressed any differently than usual, though it did appear that he had tidied himself up a bit. "We're still waiting on Ron and George, but seeing as everyone else lives here, that was t' be expected, I suppose. Hope ya don't mind waiting with me a bit."

"Of course not," Harry said, realizing that Hagrid probably wanted the chance to chat. The last time there'd been too many people. "How've things been here? They did a great job cleaning everything up. You'd never know there'd been a battle right here eight months ago."

"It were quite something." Hagrid looked around the hall with some pride. "They musta had every wizard construction crew in Europe here t' fix it. Day and night they was working, 'specially that bit old You-Know-Who blasted away. Had t' be finished by the beginning o' September, that's why. So the school'd be in good shape for the students."

"It seems a shame in a way," Harry said. "So many people died. There should be something to look at and be able to know this was a battlefield. And I don't mean just a plaque either. People should come in here, look around, and say, "This must never happen again."

"Not sure how ya could stop it, though," said Hagrid. "There's always someone thinks he has the right t' boss everyone else, and when ya add that t' magic… It ain't a pretty combination. An' ya can warn all ya want. There's always gonna be someone thinks y're giving 'em a role model."

The three were silent for a moment, Harry especially thinking about the possibility that the last wizard who thought he had the right to boss everyone else might not yet be completely accounted for. Then Hagrid changed the subject.

"Eh, Harry, I been meaning t' ask ya… Well, it's about the professor. Does he seem a mite… different t' you?"

Harry laughed. "Besides being smaller, locked in a bottle, missing most of his inhibitions and self-control, and riding around in my briefcase? Other than that, I don't see a lot of difference, no. Why do you ask?"

Hagrid was chuckling now, too, and even Hermione was smiling. "Now ya put that way," Hagrid conceded, "it does make more sense. Guess I'm just used t' him either being battened down or exploding. I ain't never seen him emotional when he weren't throwing things."

"Throwing things?" Hermione exclaimed. "I can't imagine Professor Snape…"

"Lass, you ain't never seen a tantrum 'til you seen…"

They didn't have a chance to find out what Hagrid had seen because at that moment George and Ron walked in. George led, carrying a box wrapped in brown paper. Ron followed with a package that was long and narrow with a bulge at one end that looked horribly familiar to Harry. _But,_ he thought, _not even Ron could be that dumb._

They went upstairs to greet the others. They were a dozen in all: Professors Dumbledore (portrait), McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Hagrid, students Neville, Ginny, and Luna, and former students Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George.

"Doesn't that mean that when we're all there, we'll be thirteen?" Ron asked. "That's bad luck, that is."

"Only if we're all sitting together at the same table," said George, "and then only if you get up first. Of course, not all of us would call that bad luck."

"Get off it!" Ron snapped at him.

"I doubt," Dumbledore explained, "that he will be able to find a memory that has a table with thirteen empty chairs all pulled out and waiting for us to sit down that will remain empty for the length of our celebration. There are limits to what one has in one's memory, you know. It is not the same thing as imagination."

"Good point," said Ron, more at ease.

Harry started to move the chair away from Dumbledore's desk so that he could set up the pensieve. "It doesn't matter anyway," he said. "We're not all going to be able to get around the pensieve at the same time. There're too many of us, and it's too small. We'll have to do it in shifts."

"Not if my present works," said George. "Fish him out. I've been dying to try this."

Harry pulled out the memory strand, and he and George went in. It was a memory Harry already knew – Dumbledore's office with memory Snape in his neck brace reading by the fire. Although Snape couldn't move any of the furniture, there were plenty of seats and table space for everything. And no single table where thirteen could sit at once.

"Welcome," Snape said from behind Dumbledore's desk where he was sitting. "I am gratified that someone decided to come."

"There's more outside," said George, preempting Harry, "but I wanted to give you these first. They're my present to you. Took me all day to make them. You can't keep them here because they're useless here, but they can be around any time you want to throw a bash like this one."

"Oh really," Snape said. "What are they?"

"Extendable noses."

"What are extendable noses?" Harry asked.

"Do you think it might work?" Snape asked.

"What do you mean, work?" Harry turned to Snape. "Do you understand what these things are for?"

"Of course," Snape replied. "They're for maintaining facial contact with the surface of the pensieve in as narrow an area as possible. I've never yet seen a pensieve that couldn't accommodate eleven noses."

"There are twelve of us."

"Dumbledore's coming in a portrait."

George was grinning. "I knew you'd understand," he said. "Ron's volunteered to try first. I'm going out and sending him in."

Ron appeared a moment later carrying his present and a huge jug of pumpkin juice that Harry took and put on the table. Ron stood very still, waiting, and then George popped in. "Feel anything?" George asked.

"Not a bit. Did you do it?"

"Yep. You are now sitting in a chair next to the desk with a very long nose that's sticking in the pensive. It looks deliciously weird." George popped out again and soon, one by one, everyone outside came in carrying presents and something to either eat or drink.

"Now it's your turn, Harry," said George. "It'll be easier on you if you're sitting down than if you're bending over the basin. Less likely to knock one of us out, too."

Harry and George left the pensieve. Eleven chairs were arranged around McGonagall's desk, nine of them holding party guests whose long, rubbery noses extended from their faces to the surface of the pensieve memory. "What I have to do is let you go in normally," George explained as Harry gathered up the last of the butterbeer, "then attach the nose and put you in your seat."

"What about you?" Harry asked.

"My chair's closest to the desk. Don't worry, I've been practicing."

Harry entered the pensieve with George right behind. Dumbledore was pouring wine into small glasses for the first toast of the evening. Raising their glasses, they all wished Snape a happy birthday, and then happy birthday to Lily Potter. Snape looked uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed while this was happening.

"What is the matter, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. "Is this not what you wanted?"

"To be honest," Snape replied, "I'm not sure what I wanted. Is this what usually happens at birthday parties?"

"No, actually," said Ron. "Most birthday parties are more chaotic. This one's pretty formal so far. Does that mean you've never even been to one?"

"Be quiet, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall. "Severus, why don't you open my present to you? It might help with the atmosphere." McGonagall's present was in two parts, the first very large and bulky, and the second a square box. Snape opened the large one first to uncover…

"A gramophone? What am I going to…?" Snape looked at the crank and the amplifying horn, then at the box McGonagall held out to him. It contained black vinyl discs to be played on the gramophone. "That's very nice, Minerva," said Snape with less than overwhelming enthusiasm, which he had trouble disguising, though it was clear he was trying. "Are they… Rudy Vallee? Or Russ Columbo?"

"I'm a witch, silly," said McGonagall. "Look at the label." As Snape looked, his eyes widening, she added, "You once mentioned they were popular when you were young." They were Beatle records.

Snape immediately put on _Help!_ to the great consternation of Dumbledore, and surprised the students with the fact that he was able to mouth all the words. Fortunately, he did not actually sing them, mostly because he wanted to listen to John, Paul, George, and Ringo again.

"It came out just before I started school," he explained. "Some of the older students listened to transistors in the yard during breaks. It was the first professional music I ever heard."

Dumbledore's present was a tiny, empty portrait frame that opened like a diptych. "Think of it as a cell phone," he said. "A direct line out in case you ever want to chat."

Harry presented his cheeseboard and wine next, which Snape offered around. No one but Dumbledore partook, however, since blue cheese was not a universal favorite, and in any case they felt Snape should have the full enjoyment of his gift. Dumbledore, however, was in the same situation as Snape, and was relishing the ability to taste food again.

Hermione came next. She handed Snape a small envelope which contained a laminated card. On top, in large letters, it said 'Library Card.' Under that was the name 'Severus Snape,' and below that Hermione's signature. "What's this?" Snape asked.

"A library card," Hermione replied, deadpan, as George Harrison sang 'I Need You.'"

"I can see that," said Snape. "How do I use it?"

"As I see it," Hermione said, "you're stuck in a place where there are books everywhere, but you can't open or read them. So you think of me as your library page. If you want something from the Hogwarts library, I'll check it out for you. If you want something from a muggle library, I'll get that for you, too."

"I might keep you very busy," said Snape.

Flitwick's gift was a deck of cards and a cribbage board. "Are you planning on visiting me a lot?" Snape asked.

"Just sit down and deal a hand," Flitwick replied.

Snape did, and the cards on the other side of the board moved around, though they stayed face down, flat on the table. Then two of the six separated themselves into the crib. The enchanted deck then cut itself, and Snape turned over a two. Opposite him, a six revealed itself. He laid down another six and pegged two points. His 'opponent' played a three, and a peg moved two points of its own accord.

"Wizard's Cribbage," said Flitwick with a smile. "I made it myself."

Sprout and Neville had teamed together on a present which looked like nothing more nor less than a child's chemistry set, though a bit larger. It was, in fact, a potions kit, complete with cauldron, beakers, test tubes, and a variety of ingredients including herbs from the greenhouses.

Hagrid gave Snape a ring with a black stone. "Put it on," he insisted, "and watch what happens. At least I hope somewhat happens."

Snape did as he was told, and within a minute the color of the stone was changing to a dull red.

"It's a sort of mood ring," Hagrid explained. "I weren't sure it would work, seeing as ya ain't got a body, but Professor Flitwick helped with the enchantment. If ya put it on, the-o-retically, the physical ring outside'll change color, too. That way Harry'll know if you want to see him, and you won't have to wait 'til he decides he wants t' see you."

The next to step forward was Ron, and to no one's surprise, his gift turned out to be a broom. "Very nice, Weasley. Thank you," said Snape.

"I got the idea from last time," Ron said, a bit flustered. "There we were, out in that wide open space with no one around, and I thought what a neat place it'd be to fly on a broom. For a bit of a change, I mean. Look down on the town and the moor and all. Later, I could take it back outside, and you could find just the right memory, and I could leave it for you there. To ride whenever you liked, I mean."

"You know, Weasley," Snape said slowly, "that was a very thoughtful idea. Out over the moors on a broom. I think I shall enjoy that very much."

Last were Luna and Ginny, who had also teamed together on a gift. Theirs was a set of little vials, each labeled with something like 'heathland' or 'library.'

"What do I do with these?" Snape asked, starting to unstopper one of them.

"No," cried Ginny. "Not yet. Not now. Luna and I thought that since you couldn't touch or taste anything here, you probably couldn't smell it either. Those are samples of smells, but they're pretty powerful. You only need a few drops, and since the memories are limited, they might stay there forever instead of dissipating. Harry could keep the vials outside, and when you found a memory where you wanted the correct scent as part of the scene, he could bring them in and you could use them."

That involved a discussion as they tried to decide what to do with Dumbledore's office. All agreed that there was definitely a library smell, but there was also a fireplace smell and a classroom smell due to the inks and gadgetry. They determined on a mix, with Snape cautioning, "Slowly, you can always add, but you can't take away," and soon the memory had exactly the odor of Dumbledore's old office.

Snape thanked everyone. "I'm not sure what I was expecting," he confessed. "Neckties, or something similar. These are all wonderful, and will make my existence much more enjoyable. We still have, I believe, a little time before midnight. Shall I put on some more music?"

There were other records, older records than the Beatles, and Snape put on one at random. The room was filled with the slow, graceful strains of a nostalgic, almost bittersweet tune. Snape checked the label.

"Aloha Oi" he read. "Minerva, some of these records are Hawaiian songs."

"Really," said McGonagall, looking over his shoulder. "I just took what was there. Besides the ones I made up myself, of course. It's a lovely tune, isn't it? Makes one feel like dancing."

Snape stood and, to the immense surprise of Harry and the other students, said, "Minerva McGonagall, may I have this dance?" Her left hand on his shoulder, and his right around her waist, the two revolved slowly in a four-four step that rang a bell in Harry's head.

"What's that dance called?" he asked when the music stopped.

"Och, that's nothing special, dear," McGonagall replied. "Just an ordinary foxtrot."

"Foxtrot, tango, and jitterbug," said Harry. "You used to have more dances at Hogwarts, didn't you?"

McGonagall looked at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore looked embarrassed. "You may be technically correct in that assessment, Harry," said Dumbledore. "A careful statistical analysis…"

"Statistical analysis! Hogwash!" declared McGonagall. "We had one every term until you became headmaster. I know, because we were still having dances when I started teaching. Then for a while we had one a year until… When would that have been, Severus? Was it while you were still a student?"

"My sixth year," said Snape. "That first year when we had so many deaths. It seemed a quarter of the school was in mourning."

"Was that when you learned to dance, Professor?" Neville asked Snape. "So you could have a date for the dance?"

"No," replied Snape, "I learned to dance so I wouldn't get the sh…" McGonagall's glare made him pause. "The… eh… youknow kicked out of me for disgracing Slytherin house on the dance floor."

"Foxtrot?" Hermione asked. "Were they still dancing the foxtrot when you were a boy?"

"It was the only kind of dance music Old Doubledoors would allow to be played," Snape said.

"Is that what you called me?" Dumbledore feigned shock.

"We called you a lot of things. That one was mild."

"Severus! And here I thought you were such a sweet boy."

"You should watch your language, sir. You're making Weasley ill."

"Which Weasley?"

"All of them."

George whooped with laughter, Ginny smiled, and Ron turned beet red in an effort to control his features. Snape's own face remained impassive except for a twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Sprout was gently clapping her hands. "There's the Severus we all know!" she cried. She turned to the students. "You have no idea what a wicked, wicked boy this is. The tricks he pulled on Gilderoy Lockhart… But as things got worse and worse, well, that Severus just disappeared. It's good to have you back."

"I'm sorry," said Harry, shaking his head, "but I never saw anything amusing or fun about Professor Snape while I was at Hogwarts."

"Of course not, dear," said McGonagall. "Not around students. It's bad enough that we work in a fishbowl. Our private lives are not to be the subjects of general conversation. And poor Severus here, with the classes from hell, now how was he supposed to keep Slytherin and Gryffindor in line for double Potions if he couldn't intimidate them? You didn't need a teacher for those classes; you needed a lion tamer. With a whip, a chair, and a gun."

"Professor Slughorn didn't seem to have too much trouble."

"What class did you have Slughorn for? Sixth year NEWT levels, that's what class. With all the riffraff weeded out and only dedicated students. You should see Horace after a day of second and third years. Exhausted."

"Didn't I tell you from the very beginning it would be better to have Slytherin with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor with Hufflepuff?" Snape said to Dumbledore. "Neither of them as good as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff together, but overall quite workable."

"You know," said McGonagall, "I may consider that."

"Begging your pardons," Hagrid said, "but it must be 'round midnight or after now. We had somewhat else to do, now didn't we?"

"That we did," said Dumbledore, raising his glass. "We have now passed the halfway point between the birthdays of Severus and Lily, so let us now remember Lily Evans Potter, without whose dedication we might not all be here today."

They toasted Harry's mother, and Harry pulled out his photo album to show everyone the pictures Hagrid had given him so many years before. None of the other young people could contribute anything, nor could Professor Sprout, since they hadn't known Lily, but the teachers reminisced and entertained them with tales of her talents and escapades until Flitwick said, "She was so wonderful with charms, I could never do justice to her talent with words. You'd have to see it. Why don't I put a memory into the pensieve, and we can all visit it and watch?"

"Do you think you could do this?" Harry asked Snape. "Visit another person's memory, I mean. One that you aren't part of?"

"I have no idea," Snape replied. "We can only try."

The entire group, minus Snape, exited the pensieve and watched as Flitwick carefully extracted a memory from his head, placing it into the pensieve with Snape's. The two memories did not mingle, each maintaining a clear and separate identity. Although one would have sworn that each by itself was white, side by side you could see that Flitwick's had a slight blue tone to it, while Snape's seemed faintly silver. One by one, the party entered Flitwick's memory…

They were in the Great Hall, which was apparently being decorated for one of those dances that they had so recently discussed. Flitwick was there, as was a group of students to assist him, mostly girls who looked to be about sixteen years old. Harry had no trouble picking out his mother, who was working with another Gryffindor girl behind the high table, where the windows were. A banner, hung across the Hall from one side to the other, proclaimed that the theme of the dance was 'Woodland Revels." Pensieve Snape was already there, watching from the Slytherin side.

"Woodland Revels?" Ron cried. "I don't believe it! How soft can you get?" and yet the two girls were creating an enchanted glen with the aid of magic and the warm light of May streaming in through the mullioned glass.

"Not like that, Mary," Lily was explaining. "The lateral branches don't come straight out; they angle up." She demonstrated, and the oak she was creating behind the headmaster's chair put out a great branch that rose into a magnificent canopy of leaves over the center of the high table.

"I can't do that," Mary said, and it was a simple statement of fact. "I'm better with light anyway."

"Maybe you could paint the windows," Lily suggested. "The dance starts at seven, and the sun sets around nine. If we put in the right vines and flowers, they'll catch the shifting light."

"It was May Day," Flitwick explained, coming up on Harry's left. "That's why we had the woodland theme." Together he and Harry watched as Lily planted more magical trees and helped Mary with the windows until the two had formed an enchanted bower of the staff dais. Harry noticed that Snape had ceased his passive watching and approached Lily from the left.

"I had an idea," he told the memory image. "What if you put a plant, like a fountain of leaves, right here in front of the headmaster's place. It would help define the dance floor…"

Lily ignored him and hung garlands from the rafters.

"No, really," Snape continued. "About three feet high and the leaves spreading the same distance… I think it would be lovely."

Lily festooned the backs of the professors' chairs with smaller garlands.

"Do you think it's garish?" Snape persisted. "I don't think it's garish. I think it would make a lovely addition to…"

Lily waved her wand and the fountain of leaves appeared just as Snape had described it. "There, you see!" Snape exclaimed. "Doesn't that improve the whole scene?"

Harry edged next to Snape. "You were at that dance, weren't you?"

"Spoilsport!" Snape snapped at him, and moved to stay next to Lily.

The birthday party guests oohed and aahed as Lily added touch after touch – colorful hibiscus for its beauty and fragrant magnolia for its scent, a willow weeping to shield the snack bar, narrow runs on either side of the hall for hedgehogs, squirrels, rabbits, and even a badger. By the time she was through, it was a fairyland glade, and though there was more than ample space for dancing or for sitting and talking, none of it spoiled the sylvan mood.

"Now there," said McGonagall, "was an artist in Charms. She was good in Transfiguration, but in Charms she excelled."

That led to more memories. McGonagall gave the party the memory of the victory celebration of the 1974 Quidditch cup, with its more than life-sized image of Godric Gryffindor stealing the Cumberland emerald from the dragon Snargletooth. Hagrid added the memorable Christmas of 1972, when large numbers of students had stayed at Hogwarts because of the unprecedented cold, and Lily had first demonstrated her skill by helping to shave the lake ice for an Olympic-sized rink…

It was late, or rather very early in the morning. Harry knew he would have to call in sick for work that day if he wanted any sleep at all. Ron and George had already left for home, along with Hermione. Luna, Ginny, and Neville were back in their respective dormitories. Hagrid was packing Snape's presents for apparative transport to Harry's rooms.

"Happy birthday to ye," McGonagall called to the mist in the pensieve as Flitwick and Sprout prepared to depart. "If ye don't mind now, Harry, I'll be taking my memory back." She dipped her wand into the pensieve, removed the memory – distinguishable from the others by its hint of amber – and allowed it to slip back into her head. "Now don't dally. I need my rest as well."

Harry and the other professors did not leave, however, for McGonagall suddenly clutched her head and sat down on one of the chairs. Opening her mouth, she said in a low, theatrical voice, "I think you should put me back, first, Minerva. I really don't want to stay here."

"Get out of my brain, you wicked boy!" McGonagall cried. "You have no business being in there!"

"I am very sorry, Minerva," McGonagall replied. "but I do not recall asking to be put here, and I certainly am not able to leave of my own accord. I was about to return to my own memory when I was suddenly locked inside yours, and then when I could leave I found myself in a completely unfamiliar…"

"What memory are you in?" McGonagall asked with some trepidation.

"You're in a dressing gown getting ready for some kind of special event. There are gold lamé robes laid out, and you're putting on makeup…"

"Stay there!" McGonagall ordered. "Count slowly to twenty, and then leave." She stood, her wand already out, and strode to the table. There she removed the memory filament, counted, and then entered Snape's memory. A moment later she was back, laughing. "I think the poor laddie saw more than he wanted to see. He has no love for lip rouge or mascara."

Memories now all sorted out, Harry and Hagrid took the gifts down to the Hogsmeade gate where Harry apparated home with them, making three trips in all because of the gramophone, the potions set, and the broom. That done, Harry slipped into the kitchen to contact the personnel duty officer by floo and leave word that he was not well and would not be in the office that day. The next thing on his list before he could go to sleep was Snape.

Topmost in the flask was a memory on the summit of a craggy hill in the middle of moor country. Once again memory Snape – older this time – was collecting herbs, and it appeared he would be at it for some time as he had numerous little plastic bags with him and pencils for labeling them. Harry stood on top of the hill looking at the countryside spread out for miles below him. Small towns and villages dotted the distant landscape.

"It's beautiful," he told Snape, who was standing beside him. "This is where we…" he stopped.

"Where you what?" Snape asked. Then he, too, paused. "Is this one of the things that's going to upset me when I find out what happened?" he asked finally.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I came here after you died."

"Why?"

"This is where we buried you. At the foot of the hill."

"Very appropriate," said Snape. "Thank you. Though you will forgive me for not wanting to know the exact spot."

"Sure," Harry said. "Why are we here now?"

"I have decided that this is the memory where I want to keep Ron Weasley's broom. And we could add some of the scent to make it like the moor. Most of the rest of the things I'll keep in the headmaster's office, but it can wait. You're probably sleepy, and I can spend the time exploring."

Harry went out for the broom and scent, and watched for a few seconds as Snape rose on the broom and headed out over the moor, then exited, replaced the memory in the flask, and went to sleep. He didn't wake up again until nearly noon.

xxxxxxxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

_Wednesday, January 20, 1999_

The first concern was breakfast, which Mrs. Purdy was pleased to supply. "I knocked this morning, but you were sound asleep, and seeing how late you must have gotten in last night, I didn't have the heart to wake you. Would you like waffles and syrup? Porridge? Bacon?"

Harry loaded a tray with food. Upstairs he took the time to eat heartily before he went into the pensieve, since food he consumed there, he had ascertained from all previous occasions, including the party, did not satisfy his full being. Then he carried the rest into the memory that Snape had selected for that day…

He was back in the living room of the working class cottage where he'd first seen the five-year-old Snape with his crayons, only the room had changed. Still shabby and worn, it was now lined with floor to ceiling bookcases that made it smaller and more like a study. The stairs to the upper floor were no longer visible.

Snape was both sitting in a chair reading and standing by one of the bookshelves. "What happened to my home after I died?" the standing Snape asked as soon as Harry appeared with the food. "I had some books that were unique, and lots of mementos of my family. Are they still there?"

"Not there," said Harry. "Let me put this down in the kitchen first." Luckily the door to the kitchen was open in this memory. "Come in here and have breakfast," Harry suggested. "I'll tell you while you eat."

It was a good suggestion, and Snape settled to enjoy his meal. Harry then explained. "They didn't know if you had any relatives left. Professor McGonagall said she thought not, and the lady – Mrs. Hanson – she said she didn't know of anyone. All your books and possessions went to Hogwarts. They're probably still there, all packed in boxes."

"Then I can make a list of ones that I want, and Miss Granger can get them for me."

"Sure," said Harry. "But first I want to tell you what Grindstone found out about the other flask."

"You talked to him this morning?" Snape asked. "You can't have gotten a lot of sleep."

"No, I went to see him last evening. There just wasn't any time to bring it up during the party."

"But you've discussed it with Dumbledore?"

Harry shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure why he hadn't talked to Dumbledore. All he needed to do was put one of his own memories into the pensieve – the Library would do nicely – and carry Dumbledore's portrait into it. It would be almost like old times. Almost, except that…

"I don't feel I can really trust Professor Dumbledore anymore," he confessed to Snape.

Snape put his knife and fork down. "Well I am flummoxed," he said. "You don't trust Dumbledore, but you do trust me. That has to be the biggest upset since…" His brow furrowed. "I should know some examples. That should be a function of knowing, not remembering." He shrugged. "It's a big upset. I, for one, am at a loss to explain it."

"I am, too," said Harry, "except that you and I are alike in more ways than I ever thought possible. One of those ways is that he hid things from both of us and deceived both of us, and right now I'm still a little sore about that."

"He had to do that," Snape pointed out. "You had to believe you were going to die and let go. Otherwise it wouldn't work."

"Just like you knew that you had to let Voldemort kill you, and you couldn't fight back to protect yourself. You knew you were going to die, too."

"I haven't found that memory yet," Snape said. "I don't think I want to. Tell me about Grindstone."

"Oh, right. Well he went to Borgin, and Borgin never had the flask. He says Tom Riddle told him that it was a fake and he dropped his attempts to buy it. That means Riddle bought it for himself. He just let Grindstone Senior think he was buying it for Borgin."

"Which means that he had it for seven years before he left Borgin and Burke, then for ten years while he went Merlin knows where, then for eleven years during his first… He owned that thing for nearly forty-five years. What did he do with it?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Harry said glumly. "You knew him better than I did."

"If by 'knew him' you're referring to the times he got inside my head and messed around in my brain, I suppose I did. Are we sure he only consciously made six horcruxes?"

"Definitely," Harry replied. "And he died. No question about it. That's right… you weren't there. We had his body. We dumped it in one of the classrooms and later the Ministry burned it. He's not coming back, not that Voldemort. That's not what worries me. What worries me is the diary. I'm not sure that was a horcrux. What it was supposed to do was bring him back – not his 'real' self, but his sixteen-year-old self totally independent of his 'real' self. What if the flask is supposed to do the same – bring back a younger version of Voldemort?"

"I'm not sure I want to think about this," said Snape. "Do you realize that if he could do that with a diary and a flask, he could do it with other things, too? There might be hundreds of artifacts up and down Britain, each holding the essence of the Dark Lord at a particular stage of his life. We'd never find them all. He might be foisted back on an unsuspecting world in the year 2347 if that's when somebody finds and opens one of his containers."

"Now I am depressed," said Harry.

"Dumbledore always said I had that effect on him, too," said Snape.

Harry sighed, "What do you suggest, Professor? That we…"

"How old are you, Potter?"

"Eighteen, sir."

"And not attending Hogwarts any longer?"

"No, sir."

"Then there is no reason to keep up with this ridiculous 'Professor' business. You are an adult, and you are not my student. I call you Potter, you may as well call me Snape."

"I…" Harry blushed. "Of course… Snape… sir… eh… Snape."

"There. That wasn't so hard. Now, as I see it, our first priority is to track down this other flask. We need to deduce places where he might have hidden it. To do that, we need to find out more about his life during those years. Maybe you could interview people who knew him. I know Dumbledore had little success, but now that he's dead…"

"Wait a minute," cried Harry. "There's a bunch of people right here in this house that went to school with him!" And he told Snape about Mrs. Nokes and the Dowd sisters.

One or the other of the Dowd sisters, and frequently both, could usually be found either in the dining room or in the little lounge area of the boarding house. This was principally because they were the only residents who lived two in a room and therefore had less privacy. Fortunately, they were also more sociable than the others. Miss Arwella was in the dining room that afternoon, Miss Deirdre having gone out for a walk.

Harry went in carrying his briefcase and got a cup of tea from the sideboard where the teapot was always full and hot. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Certainly, dear," she replied. "I'm never one to pass up the company of a gentleman. Are you feeling all right? Mrs. Purdy said you might be ill."

"I went to a party last night," Harry admitted, "and stayed out far too late. That's one thing I wanted to ask you about because someone was there that you might know. She's Headmistress of Hogwarts now, Professor McGonagall, but you would have known her as Minerva McGregor. She was older than you, of course, and in Gryffindor house…"

"Tall, slender girl with raven hair and a Scottish accent, right?" exclaimed Arwella. "She was head girl in our second year. We didn't really know her, of course. We were too young. Mrs. Nokes might, though."

"You see," said Harry, "there was dancing at the party last night, and Professor McGonagall mentioned the same thing you told me, how there used to be more dances at the school, and I was wondering if you would let me see what they looked like."

"I don't know how I could do that," said Arwella, sipping her tea. "We didn't generally take pictures, you know. We were too busy dancing and flirting."

Harry leaned down and opened his briefcase. He'd brought both the flask and the pensieve, and to remove the pensieve easily he had first to take out the flask, which he set on the table.

"Oh my, that's a pretty bottle," said Arwella. "Bit of an odd shape, though. Has that got something to do with the dances?"

"Not really, but this does." Harry extracted the pensieve and set it on the table. "It's called a pensieve. It's for looking at memories."

"I've heard of those. I never saw one before. How does it work?"

"First you have to think of a memory you want to review. I have to warn you, though. You should choose carefully because you can't manipulate it. When you tell someone about something you remember, you can edit it – you can choose what to say and what to leave out. You can't do that with a pensieve. Everything is there."

"It's good of you to tell me that, dear. I can see already that there are some dances I'm not taking you to." Miss Arwella smiled mischievously.

Harry smiled, too. He often wished he had the same sense of fun that Miss Arwella did. Nothing seemed to inhibit or embarrass her. "Now," he continued, "you hold your wand next to your temple, concentrate on the memory you want, and think _Solvo Memoriam_. The memory comes out like a bit of fog." As he talked, Harry demonstrated, pulling a memory filament out of his head and dropping it into the pensieve.

"How lovely," said Arwella, leaning forward to examine the twisting white thread. "How do you watch it?"

"One way is to bring it to the surface and watch it from outside." Harry touched the memory with his wand, and there was the Great Hall at Hogwarts, students filling the tables as the first years were sorted. It was Harry's own sorting.

"Is that you?" Arwella giggled, pointing at the small, skinny eleven-year-old with the unruly hair. "You were cute, weren't you?"

Harry blushed. Then he explained further. "You can also go inside the memory. The people there can't see or hear you; you're like a ghost. You can watch everything they're doing. This is how you do it. He bent over the bowl and let himself fall into the memory.

Arwella was beside him in a moment. "My," she said. "Hogwarts hasn't changed a bit." Together they examined the students, the teachers, the food… Then Arwella said, "This is what you want to do with one of our dances? I think I can show you that. How do we get out of here?"

Back in the dining room, Harry replaced his own memory while Arwella thought carefully about which of hers to show him. It was harder for her than Harry would have imagined since most of Arwella's memorable dances ended… well, memorably.

There was a funny, gasping little cry behind them. Harry and Arwella turned simultaneously to find that Deirdre had come in from her walk. She stood rigid just inside the doorway, her eyes wide and her face ashen, her trembling right hand pointing into the room. Then, with a long sigh, she fainted and collapsed in a heap on the rug.

As Arwella rushed to her sister's side, Harry turned to look at the thing that had so shocked Deirdre Dowd – Snape's emerald green flask.

Arwella brought a chair over to Deirdre, and Harry levitated her into it. Then he went for a glass of water while Arwella patted her sister's hands and called her name, trying to get her to wake up. Mrs. Nokes was in the kitchen discussing supper with Mrs. Purdy, and both women went back to the dining room with Harry. By then, Deirdre had opened her eyes and was staring at the flask.

"What a fascinating bottle!" said Mrs. Nokes. "Is that yours, Deirdre? Quite a find. Where did you get it?"

"No," said Deirdre, accepting the glass from Harry and downing the water. "I think it belongs to young Mr. Potter here."

"You recognized it, though, didn't you?" Harry said. "You've seen one like it before."

"Well, I don't know that I have," replied Deirdre with a shifty look in her eyes.

"I don't want to be rude or anything," said Harry, "but this could be very important. The one you saw before… was it purple?"

Deirdre nodded. "How do you know?" she asked shakily. "It was supposed to be a secret."

"Whose secret?" Mrs. Nokes was examining the flask carefully. "This isn't glass," she added casually in the silence left by Deirdre's not answering. "It's carved out of a single gem. It must be worth a fortune."

"I think I know whose secret," Harry told Deirdre. "And if I'm right, you don't have to worry about him anymore. He's dead."

"Dead?" There was an almost wistful note to Deirdre's voice. "I know he's been gone for years… nearly forty years now… but dead?"

"What are you talking about?" exclaimed Arwella. "Deirdre Dowd, are you telling me you had a boyfriend and didn't tell me?" – a question which produced another noticeable silence.

Harry looked around at the four older women. Try as he might, he could not recall one article in any newspaper or one statement by any Ministry official that linked the names Voldemort and Riddle. Except for the handful of teenage followers at Hogwarts in the 1940s, it was possible that only Dumbledore, Snape, and Harry himself really knew who Voldemort was. Clearly neither Mrs. Nokes nor Mrs. Purdy, nor the Dowd sisters did. He cleared his throat.

"You mentioned him the other evening, when we were talking about dances. He was a classmate of yours, Mrs. Nokes. Tom Riddle."

Both Mrs. Nokes and Arwella stared at Deirdre, who stared at Harry. "How did you know?" she whispered.

"Because I know this bottle had a mate, and I know that Tom Riddle bought it in 1953. I'm going to be honest with you…"

"Always a good idea," commented Mrs. Nokes.

"I'm not really interested in dances. I wanted to see a dance because I was hoping to get one with Riddle present so I could watch him."

"Ah," said Mrs. Nokes, "now things are beginning to make sense. Thus the pensieve. And the bottle contains…"

"Don't open that!" cried Deirdre. "It's got one of those genie things in it!"

"Is that true, Mr. Potter?" Mrs. Nokes raised her monocle and peered at Harry through it. "Are you bringing dangerous magical creatures into my establishment?"

"No ma'am, not at all. It's… it's full of memories. I look at them from time to time in the pensieve."

"Tom said it was a dangerous genie who'd kill the person who released him. I wasn't ever to touch it."

Harry wanted to ask when and where Miss Deirdre had received these instructions, but Mrs. Nokes was quicker. "I'd like to see one of these memories," she said.

Harry sighed. Unstoppering the flask he said, "There aren't really any exciting memories here, ma'am. I haven't been able to find anything good at all. That's why I was so interested in yours." He hoped some sense of that message filtered down to Snape. It was times like this when it would have been useful if Snape could actually hear the outside world.

Snagging a memory from the flask, Harry put it into the pensieve, then lightly tapped the basin's surface to bring the memory up. What he got was not a memory but a tiny, black-clad figure with long dark hair who said, "Well it's about time, Potter! I was getting tired of being locked up in there."

"It's a genie!" shrieked Deirdre, who looked as if she might faint again.

"Genie?" said Snape, looking around. "Where?"

"You're the genie," Harry said, praying that Snape was quick on the uptake. "Say 'good afternoon' to the nice ladies."

It was fortunate that Harry had already told Snape about the women in some detail, for Snape marked the monocle at once and said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Nokes. It is a pleasure to be able at last to greet the proprietress of this fine establishment. And Miss Arwella and Miss Deirdre Dowd. Enchanted to make your acquaintance as well. And is this the culinary artist to whom I owe the pleasure of such excellent food? Mrs. Purdy, I presume?"

"Pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Nokes. "Are you, in fact, a genie? Forgive me, but I always pictured the djinn as somewhat… larger."

"No, dear lady, I am not a genie. I'm a… sort of a sprite. This bottle has been my home for… as long as I can remember."

"Are you an air sprite or a water sprite?"

"More of a smoke sprite. That's why I have to stay in this bottle. If it breaks or is spilled, I'll just dissipate, like smoke in the wind. I was languishing for years on a shelf in a shop when Mr. Potter here found me. He takes care of me, feeds me, keeps me company. I'm the reason we're looking for the other bottle."

Miss Deirdre had moved closer. "You mean there's no genie in that bottle?"

"No, ma'am. The other bottle held my… my brother. We want to find out if he's still alive and well. A sort of family reunion. Unfortunately, the bottle he lived in was sold, and we don't know where it went. All we know is who bought it."

"That's so sad," said Arwella. "Deirdre, where did you see that bottle? Maybe it's still there."

"Don't be silly, 'Wella. After almost forty years? I would need some time to think about it. Perhaps I could recall…"

"Excuse me," said Snape, "I was wondering if you would let me retire. Appearing for too long in this form is very stressful for me, and I need to go back upstairs into a room that gets more direct sunlight."

"He's right," said Harry quickly. "The rooms upstairs are perfect because they get so much sun. I forget sometimes because the artificial light doesn't bother me. Here…" He tapped the pensieve again and Snape melted down into the memory thread and was placed back into the flask. "Ladies," said Harry, "we really do know that Tom Riddle bought that other bottle. If there's anything any of you can remember that would help us find it, we'd both appreciate it very much."

The ladies agreed to see if they could remember anything, and Harry took the bottle and pensieve back upstairs where, in the privacy of his own room he summoned Snape to the top of the pensieve again.

"You outrageous liar!" he exclaimed as soon as the diminutive potions master hovered in front of him. "A smoke sprite? Where did you come up with that? Why not a genie?"

"Stop snickering," said Snape. "It was better than you were able to come up with. I can't be a genie, Einstein – genies grant wishes. And if they check on my story, they'll find that sprites can be caught in traps and stored in bottles. I suggest you find a length of red thread and put it in with me. That will make the story ironclad."

"But why a smoke sprite?"

"Because air sprites and water sprites are not only well known, they're hopeless wimps. I wanted something she couldn't look up in the Library at Hogwarts, and besides, I wanted to be sure they didn't develop any romantic ideas about giving me my freedom. Can you imagine if Miss Arwella poured me out into the garden?"

"I will admit, that was a good idea."

"Thank you. Now, what did you find out?"

Harry began pacing as he recounted the pieces of information.

"Miss Deirdre knew Riddle quite well, but I guess it was not at Hogwarts. She's mentioned a couple of times that it was almost forty years ago, so I guess it was about the time that Riddle vanished for ten years. No one else knew of the relationship, not even her sister. She saw the other flask. She recognized this one, and it made her faint. She said Riddle told her never to open it because there was a dangerous genie inside."

"I imagine there is," said Snape. "And when you release the genie, it calls itself Lord Voldemort and tries to take over the world."

"I'll bet you're right!" cried Harry. "All you have to do is open it, and he's out!. That thing must be hidden away so securely…"

"Not that securely," said Snape. "What would be the point of arranging for your own resurrection if nobody could ever find and open the bottle?"

"May I ask you a question?" Harry sat down in front of the pensieve where he could face Snape.

"I don't know how I could stop you," Snape replied. "I do, however, reserve the right not to answer."

"Last night, what was it like, going into Professor McGonagall's brain?"

"This is really quite unfair, Potter. You have the freedom to move about the room while you think, but you keep me constrained in this tiny space where I can scarcely turn around. Why don't you come in here where we can both be comfortable?"

Harry nodded, tapped the pensieve to release Snape, and shortly found himself in the Potions classroom at Hogwarts where a young Professor Snape was writing out long sheets of parchment as he inventoried supplies. "You weren't much older than I am now, were you?" he commented, watching the younger professor with his look of focused concentration.

"Three years older. I was twenty-one when I started working at Hogwarts. I told Dumbledore I disliked the idea of teaching, but it was a relief to get away from the pressures at headquarters. The Dark Lord knew by then that there was a spy at headquarters, you see, and…"

"How did he know?"

"Pettigrew told him. I didn't know at the time. None of us knew about Pettigrew. He told the Dark Lord his identity had to be kept a secret or Dumbledore's spy would find out that he was the source of the leak, though I didn't find out about that until 'he' came back three and a half years ago. We were all interrogated. Being assigned to Hogwarts meant I could relax for the first time in nine months."

"Would you show me one of those sessions with Voldemort?"

"I would prefer not. It is not the sort of memory I would care to relive, and I doubt it would aid us in our present search."

"You don't know that."

Snape leaned back against his desk, half sitting, his arms bracing him from behind. "Potter, I think I have a better feel for that than you do. After all, I was there, remember?"

"But you weren't paying attention."

"I was paying very careful attention. I was interested in staying alive. It tends to sharpen one's senses."

"You were paying attention to Voldemort. What about the rest of the room? Did you pay attention to that? I had a dream about an interrogation, one that you saw. The room was dark with a circle of light. Was that what it was like when he questioned you? If it was, you don't know what was in that room. The pensieve memory can show us that."

"I became a Death Eater in 1978. That would have been approximately twenty years after Deirdre Dowd last saw Tom Riddle. The flask would have been hidden away long before."

"He might have retrieved it."

Snape pushed himself swiftly upright and moved away from Harry. "I don't want to look at it!" His back was to Harry, but the hunched set of his shoulders spoke of intense reluctance to face the memory of pain and fear.

"You wouldn't have to. I could put several memories in the pensieve and you could wait in one of the others while I looked around."

"I would still have to be there to bring it to the surface."

"Only for a moment. Close your eyes."

"I have a better idea. Why don't we look at your memories of the Dark Lord? They're more recent. They'd have up to date information."

Harry shook his head. "We know from the Horcruxes that once he placed something somewhere he didn't move it. My memories are too late."

"Then mine are also too late. You need to work on Deirdre Dowd, not on me."

"No," Harry pointed out. "He got the cup and the locket at about the same time that Miss Deirdre saw the Soulstone Coffin, but he didn't hide them until much later, not until Bella and Regulus were Death Eaters."

Snape turned to look quizzically at Harry. "What did Bella and Regulus have to do with the Horcruxes?"

"The cup was put into an extra-secure vault at Gringotts. A vault that belonged to Bella Lestrange. The locket was in a cave. He ordered Regulus to send Kreacher to test the defenses when he first made them. Kreacher would have died if Regulus hadn't instructed him to come home. That's what made Regulus realize how evil Voldemort was, that he'd sacrifice a loyal house elf just to test poison. Regulus died replacing the Horcrux with a fake. That's how we found it. Kreacher knew what had happened to it."

Snape stared at Harry in shock. "Regulus died… working against the Dark Lord?" he said finally. "We didn't… We were sure the Order…"

"I know," said Harry. "I saw that memory."

"Which memory?"

"One where you were explaining to Dumbledore why you were so sure that Sirius wanted to kill me and that Lupin was helping him."

Snape crossed his arms on his chest. "How many other memories of mine have you looked at without my permission or knowledge?"

"Just four others. One when you were little and had to leave the house when your dad got home, and another where that man was angry because his son got good marks even though he wasn't doing any work. And one with my mother when you were ten. The fourth was on your birthday when you went to sit by the lake. They were all before I found out you were inside. Ever since, I've only looked at the memories you choose."

The answer seemed to mollify Snape, so Harry took up his arguments again. "I don't see why it's so hard for you to go back and see one of those memories. You lived with them for years. It's no different now."

"You don't understand," Snape said, "I didn't live with them. I shut them away behind the doors that don't exist anymore. The memories in the bottle… I've been drifting around sampling them. The ones I come across most often are the ones I've visited before. If I know the moment I enter a memory that it's going to be bad, I leave immediately. Since I didn't watch it, it doesn't keep coming back. But if I stay, then I'm going to keep seeing that memory over and over again. I don't want that. I want to be able to control them like I used to."

"Even if it means letting Voldemort come back?"

Snape was silent.

"Regulus was a friend of yours, wasn't he?" Harry pressed. "He was willing to die to get rid of Voldemort."

"So was I," said Snape. "I found that one. Now I keep stumbling across it. I hate snakes." He stared down at his hands. "Regulus was lucky. He died. He doesn't have to remember anything."

Both were silent for a while. The thought of Snape's predicament saddened Harry more than he would have thought possible. He himself had more than his share of bad memories, but unless he was asleep and dreaming, he had fairly good control of them. All he had to do to shut them out entirely was occupy himself with his work, or with a book – Snape had nowhere to go to escape. He would be in a memory before he knew what it was, and although he could also escape at will, he could not hold it at bay. It would return again, and again…

Harry suddenly clapped his hands. "I could take them away from you!" he told Snape, excited by the thought that had sprung to mind.

"What are you talking about?" Snape asked warily.

"I could get another container, and when you found one of those bad memories, you could bring it to me, and I could put it in the other container where you'd never run into it at all. How about that?"

Snape was quiet again. Then, "You know, Potter, I hate to admit it, but that isn't a bad idea. The memories would be preserved in case they were needed, but they would be where they wouldn't affect me unless for some reason I wanted them to. Not bad at all."

"Then you'll look for memories?"

"I suppose I have to. We have to stop the Dark Lord from returning."

"Excellent. Now, if you'd answer my first question…"

"And which question was that?"

"What was it like being in Professor McGonagall's brain?"

Snape wrinkled his brow in thought. "I didn't realize I was there at first. I was watching Lily, and then I left to return to one of my own memories and found myself in a completely unfamiliar house watching a rather young McGonagall getting ready for a party. I think it was a party. Anyway, I knew at once that I had to get out, so I went to her Broca's area…"

"What's that?"

"It's the part of the frontal lobe that controls speech production."

"How do you know that?"

Snape folded his arms across his chest again. "You had my book. You were trying out the spells. How do you expect to be able to construct a spell like Langlock if you have no knowledge of brain function?"

Harry gulped. "I just thought it was all magic," he said.

"There is no such thing as 'all magic,'" retorted Snape. "It is always a combination of magic and something else. It's the something else that purebloods don't understand, which is why most new spells are created by half-bloods and muggle-borns. It was one of the Dark Lord's greatest weaknesses, that he never understood the importance of the mundane detail work. When it came to my potions laboratory, I could wrap him around my little finger because he had no idea what I was talking about – H2SO4, catalytic agents, nothing. Bella was just as bad."

"Is that why he thought he was the only one who knew about the Room of Requirement?"

"What's that?" Snape asked.

"You mean you didn't know about it?"

"Tell me what it is and where it is, and I'll tell you if I knew about it."

"Well," Harry tried to explain, "it's this room…"

"I got that part."

"It's on the seventh floor of the castle, and you can't see the door. But if you walk in front of it three times thinking of something you need very much, it will open and what you need will be there. Neville used it to hide in during the second half of last school year. It's where Draco repaired the vanishing cabinet, and Professor Dumbledore found it once when he really needed a bathroom."

"I doubt that," said Snape.

"Really. I overheard him tell someone that."

"If Professor Dumbledore had really needed such facilities on the seventh floor, he would not have been pacing up and down. He would have gone straight to his office where he had a private bath suite. He was sending somebody up. And no, I never heard of this place."

"It's where I hid your potions book. I went there and thought how I really needed a place to hide something, and there it was. It was this huge room full of thousands of pieces of junk that students had been throwing away for centuries. You could hardly move around for all the desks, chairs, books, statues, dishes, everything that students wanted to discard, heaped in mountains in that room."

"And the point of this is," Snape asked.

"That's where Voldemort hid Ravenclaw's diadem. He thought nobody knew about it but him."

"In a huge room piled with junk?"

"Yeah. Brilliant, no?"

"Never forget that this was the man who put a horcrux into an adult reptile with a maximum lifespan of about thirty years as a guarantee of immortality."

"Tell me, sir," said Harry. "If he could do such dumb things, why was he so dangerous?"

"Because he really was powerful. He was a powerful magic worker and a powerful legilimens, and he had absolutely no restraining moral principles whatsoever. If he wanted, he took. If he was angry, he punished. If you were in his way, you died. He shared no one's idea of right and wrong. What he wanted was right, and anyone in his way was wrong. When his enemies paused to consider the ethics of the matter, he used the pause to kill them."

"Then why did you join him?" Harry was very careful, as he asked this question, to keep all hint of accusation out of his voice. He really wanted an answer, not a confrontation, because he had realized for many months now that the man in front of him held answers to questions Harry had always wondered about, and that he had been lost too soon. To be able to ask the questions was a boon Harry had never dared hope he would be given.

"At the time it seemed the logical thing to do," Snape replied. He thought for a moment. "I was about the same age you are now. I had no family, no money, no friends, and the world was a hostile place full of closed doors. The Dark Lord welcomed me. I was treated as if I were someone who mattered, a member of the family. If I had not gone in that direction, I don't know where I would have gone. There was nothing else open to me. Being cast into the world when you are young and alone is a frightening thing."

"Couldn't you have become a teacher?"

"At eighteen? And try to discipline students I'd fought with for a seat in the common room the year before? No. When I applied the following year on the Dark Lord's orders, the case was still a hopeless one. I was too young. Two years after that, I was still too young, but by then Dumbledore was my controller, and he was looking for a place to keep me safe."

"Could you have worked in a shop?"

"With my face? Tom Riddle's face – Dumbledore showed me what he looked like – was a passkey into any job he wanted in Diagon Alley. You? You've got money and fame. Let's leave you your face, but take away the money and the fame and see how far you get on unassisted talent."

Harry shook his head, grinning. "I'm not that dumb," he said.

"I am pleased to hear it," said Snape. "At any rate, we have now digressed from the subject twice. To make a short story as short as I can, I entered McGonagall's Broca's area, which controls speech production, and contrived to communicate through her vocal apparatus."

"How?" Harry asked.

"How should I know? I am a mist, a vapor. Worse, I am substanceless. I went into the frontal lobe and willed that something happen. How do you make your mouth speak?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "It just happens."

"Well that's how I did it."

"I wonder," Harry mused, "what would happen if I were in a memory that got put back into McGonagall's head?"

Snape looked at Harry with disdain. "Considering what happened during the short period that George was separated from his body, I for one would hesitate to even try it. Imagine poor McGonagall walking around with dead Harry Potter in her brain and no way to remove him."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Harry.

"That's one of the reasons you need a teacher," retorted Snape. "To remind you that there are both limitations and other possibilities."

"Thank you," Harry said. "I'll keep that in mind. What about my other idea? About putting the bad memories into a different container so you don't have to keep seeing them? It's only about two o'clock. Shall I go to Diagon Alley and get something appropriate?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to have some say about the bottle that's going to hold a major part of what's left of me in it. Don't get me wrong. I think you did exceptionally well with the first container – not that it was really your choice – but there aren't any more of these around, and there's a wide range of desirability in what's left."

"Should I take you with me? I could show you each one I was looking at."

"How?" Snape snorted. "Are you planning to take each one into the pensieve in the middle of a busy shop? That would attract interest. Do you know what you look like when you're bent over a pensieve? Of course, if exhibiting yourself for female appraisal is one of your goals…"

"Shut up!" Harry snapped, then laughed as Snape did exactly that, raising his eyebrows in a supercilious gaze that was a parody of his usual stern manner. "What would you suggest?"

"Why don't you buy several, bring them here for me to look at, then return the ones that we decide not to keep?'

"What if you don't like any of them?"

"Take them all back. Buy several more. It isn't a difficult thing to do."

"It could mean I'd have to make several trips," Harry pouted.

"It's not as if apparating took hours. By the end of the afternoon you could be finished."

"Or I could spend days traveling back and forth." Harry thought for a moment. "While you were in Professor McGonagall's brain, could you read her thoughts?"

"I made no attempt to read her thoughts. They certainly were not thrust at me against my will…" Snape leaned suddenly forward, resting his knuckles on the table in front of him. "Potter, I am not going into your brain," he stated firmly. "There are certain things I prefer not to see, and the images in the mind of a teenage boy are one of them."

"Why would you have to look at my thoughts? You went into Professor McGonagall's Broca's area to control her speech. Could you have looked out through her eyes?"

Snape's brow furrowed in thought. "That would be the visual cortex in the back of the brain," he said slowly. "The dorsal stream also controls certain arm movements…" His eyes narrowed. "I am absolutely astounded, Potter, that you would even consider putting me into your brain. Does the thought of what I might do not worry you?"

Harry considered that for a moment. "It would have while I still thought of you as an enemy, but now that I know you aren't… Well, sir, you've never been the type to sneak around – certainly not without a good reason. You were always pretty straightforward about things, and you don't break rules. Besides, if I wanted to, I could have total control over your memories and what I see, so maybe I should reciprocate a little bit."

There was a lengthy pause after he finished, as if Snape were waiting for more. Then Snape said, "I appreciate the fact that you did not point out that you ultimately have all the power and could destroy me any time you wanted. The toilet option? Very well. Shall we experiment?"

Harry left the pensieve and considered carefully before he extracted a recollection of studying in the library and placed it in the basin. The thread of his own memory, he noted, had a slightly coral tint to it. The thought crossed his mind 'This is a foolish thing to do,' then he steeled himself, dipped his wand into the pensieve, and replaced the thought in his head.

The plain, pure fact of the matter was that Harry felt absolutely nothing. He wondered for a moment if he should go into Snape's memory in the pensieve to see if Snape was still there, then thought about the possible ramifications of taking Snape back into his 'own' world enclosed in his, Harry's, head, and decided he didn't want to take the chance. "Are you there?" he asked aloud, since Snape had said that he hadn't been able to see what McGonagall was thinking.

There was a tiny pause, and then Harry's own mouth moved and said, "That is a question that can only be answered 'yes,' as you declined to specify exactly where 'there' is. I have located the auditory cortex and Broca's area. I am now going to the visual cortex."

Harry simply waited. He hadn't felt anything strange about his mouth talking to him. It was very much like ordinary talking to oneself – something that Harry did from time to time, especially now that he lived alone instead of in a dormitory. He'd had no sense that another will had been controlling his voice, none at all. _In evil hands, this could be a powerful weapon,_ he thought. _Later I should try to see if I can fight against the control. I'll have to talk to him about it._

Then Harry suddenly noticed the window. This gave him a strong desire to turn his head so that he could see it better. Of its own volition, his arm rose, and his finger pointed to the window. Taking the hint, he walked over to it and looked out. There was a longer pause this time.

"Nice view," said Harry's mouth. "Are you in Mayfair? I figured you for a posh neighborhood. People with money have no sense of discretion."

"I'm glad you disapprove," retorted Harry. "You were never exactly famous for your decorating ability or your taste in fashion."

"My, my," his mouth retorted. "We are honing the skill of repartee. Be careful who you use it on. Not everyone has my sense of humor."

"I never saw you being careful about it."

"That's because I never cared who I offended. Bunch of stuffed shirts anyway. But a young social climber like yourself should watch his step."

"What do you want to try now?" Harry asked.

"I am not sure," replied Harry's mouth. "Since I've been able to find the centers of the brain that allow me to see and hear what you see and hear, theoretically I should also be able to find places where I can smell, taste, and feel what you sniff, eat, and touch. I never worked with that sort of thing, though, and I'm not sure where the sensory systems have their processing centers. It's not the same as for sound and hearing."

"Why not?" Harry asked, not ever having thought this much about his own brain in his life before.

"Because sight and hearing have to do with receiving wavelengths of different frequencies – light waves… sound waves – and interpreting what they mean. Taste and smell involve chemical receptors, while touch is so complicated – pressure, heat or cold, pain – that a large number of different kinds of receptors are involved. I never had the need to take so much time studying them. Of course, now that it can affect my own ability to smell or feel something… Maybe Granger can get me some good books."

Harry and Snape practiced for about twenty minutes in Harry's rooms. Although Snape could transit fairly rapidly from one brain center to another, his movement was not instantaneous. Harry had to move a little bit more slowly than usual to give Snape a chance to shift between visual, auditory, and vocal centers.

Soon, however, they felt they were ready. Harry replaced the memory of Snape's classroom in the emerald coffin and carried flask and pensieve with him just in case. He then went downstairs to apparate to Diagon Alley, noting in passing that neither the Dowd sisters nor Mrs. Nokes were there. It was something to think about later. Going out into the little paved yard, Harry disapparated.

Diagon Alley was not particularly crowded that day. The first stop was the apothecary shop near the Leaky Cauldron. Harry walked in nonchalantly, keenly aware that this was his second time in two weeks for essentially the same purpose, and asked to see some of the bottles suitable for holding mists and fogs.

"Same as last time?" asked the proprietor, with a suspicious glare.

"Not exactly," Harry replied. "A bit smaller, actually."

The proprietor brought out an assortment of bottles and flasks, and Harry picked up and examined them carefully, holding each one until he heard his own voice say quietly, 'cheap material' or 'I'm not fond of the color' or even once 'Lockhart had one just like it in his office. So tacky.'

Finally the proprietor had to admit that there were no more bottles to look at. "You might want to be a little less choosy," he advised. "I never knew but one or two customers to be this picky about a chunk of glass."

"Maybe if you stocked a better quality of glass," Harry's voice countered after a momentary pause, "your customers wouldn't have to be picky. There's a junk shop at the end of the alley. Maybe we should try there."

As soon as he was out of the apothecary shop, Harry ducked into a space between two buildings where he pretended to be looking through his briefcase as he said quietly, "What are you trying to do to me? I may need to talk to him again." He waited for Snape to answer, but no answer came.

_This is ridiculous. I don't even know if he heard me or not because he might be in my visual instead of my auditory cortex. What can I…?_ He pulled out a scrap of parchment and a pencil and scribbled the words 'Go where you can hear. I want to talk to you.' He stared at them until his mouth formed the words, "What's the problem?"

"You're the problem," Harry said. "You just insulted someone I may need in the future. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep personal remarks buttoned up while you're in my head talking through my mouth."

"He deserved it," said Harry's mouth after a tiny pause. "You know he was talking about me, right? He knew I didn't come from an important family, so he always tried to sell me substandard goods when I was a student. That's one reason I went to Knockturn Alley. The source of their goods might be suspect, but quality never is."

Harry waited a few seconds for Snape to transit to the hearing part of his brain again before he spoke. "But he doesn't know he's talking to you, so you need to watch it. I'm going to the junk shop now. You steer me towards anything you think looks good."

It turned out to be quite easy. Snape did nothing until after they were in the shop, where Harry told the proprietor he was just browsing. After a while, Harry found his hand pointing to various types of bottles, which he examined carefully one by one. What he ended up with was a lovely, cut glass carafe that had probably started its existence as a sherry decanter, and which cost Harry the enormous sum of fifteen sickles.

"There," stated Harry's mouth in a low tone as they left the shop, "good value for a small sum. Not what you'd ever get from Slug and Jiggers."

Harry apparated home and stared at his 'I want to talk to you' note. When Snape let him know he was listening, Harry told him to go back into the library memory. Harry then put his memory into the pensieve, and fished a short, random memory out of the flask for Snape to enter. A moment later, he replaced his own memory in his head. That done, Harry washed out the newly purchased carafe carefully. He then checked the pensieve, and was startled to notice the small circle of gray mist under the memory strand. Puzzled, he entered the memory…

He stood at midnight on the astronomy tower watching from Dumbledore's point of view as Snape burst through the stairway door to find the headmaster slumped wandless, clearly dying, against the parapet wall. Snape's initial look of shock froze instantly to impassive stone as his eyes darted to Draco, to the broomsticks, to the spot where Harry knew himself to be standing, cloaked and invisible. Then Snape turned both head and gaze to his right, to take in the figures of the Carrows, Yaxley, and Greyback.

Dumbledore said gently, "Severus," and Snape's head snapped back to face the headmaster. He pushed Draco aside so that his and Dumbledore's eyes could meet, and for a moment there was silence. Then, his face hardening even more as he struggled to control the horror, pain, and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him, Snape raised his wand and cried, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry didn't wait to see the rest. Exiting the memory immediately, he pulled another memory from the emerald coffin, placed it in the pensieve, and put the tower memory into the new carafe. Then he entered the second memory…

He stood on the second floor of Hogwarts in the slanted light of a late summer evening watching as Snape glanced cautiously around before entering Dolores Umbridge's office. There he flung floo powder into the fireplace, crying '12 Grimmauld Place' as he did so. Then Harry listened as Snape told Sirius he suspected the students might be going to London… cautioned against Sirius going to the Ministry because Sirius was the bait to lure Potter there.

Harry watched Snape's face as Sirius shouted, "No! He's James's son! For Chris'sake, Severus, he's Lily's son! And he's the closest thing to my own son I'll ever have. Dammit, I love him!" and then the pause and the almost whispered, "Good luck," and Sirius's "Thank you."

It was hard tearing himself away from that memory, but Harry knew he had to. _I can't put him in this one either,_ he thought. _It's too close to death._ He left the memory and scooped out another…

This memory was of a place Harry had never seen before, a comfortable sitting room with cheery, old-fashioned floral coverings on the sofa and chairs, a table set with a plate of sandwiches, fruit, milk, and cookies, and a television tuned to an episode of Dr. Who. On the floor in front of the telly sat the little boy of Harry's first pensieve adventure, maybe seven years old by now, watching with avid attention. From the kitchen he could hear the voice of the woman Mrs. Hanson – "You be sure you eat some of that food, Russ Snape. We don't want your mum to think I'm starving you."

It was the right memory. Harry hurried out and spoke to the gray mist. "It's safe now. I got rid of the other one. The one that's there is a good memory. Please, go into it." He continued coaxing until the gray mist floated upwards and disappeared. Then Harry entered the memory, too.

In the comfortable, welcoming sitting room, the little boy watched Dr. Who, unaware that on the sofa his older self lay curled on his left side. Harry knelt by the sofa. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize which one it was. Next time I'll be more careful."

There was no immediate response.

"Are you all right?" Harry prodded, concerned that Snape seemed to want to retreat into himself, withdraw from any contact. "Is this one all right? I tried to pick one that seemed happy, far away from unpleasantness."

Snape spoke softly. "I couldn't get out. I didn't want to be there, but there was nowhere else to go." He shifted his position and looked around the room. "You made a good choice," he said. "I was always happy at Mrs. Hanson's. Nothing bad ever happened here." He swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. "It will go on for a while, too. I'm going to spend the night."

"Did you come over here a lot? That seems sort of…" Harry clamped his mouth shut, aware he was being rude, yet forced to stifle a sudden burst of laughter that came out instead like a snort.

"You find the circumstances of my childhood amusing?" said Snape, glowering at Harry.

"No, sir. It's just that Hagrid told me that if I bothered you while you were… fragile – well, that he'd sit on me, and I had this sudden image of Hagrid coming down on top of me and…"

Snape smiled. "Hagrid always used to threaten to sit on me, too, but usually it was for skipping meals and not caring for my health." He rose to move slowly around the room. "A sudden image… That's what I don't have. I know things, but there are no images. If I want the image, I have to find it and enter the memory. But I don't know which memory it is until I go inside. Searching goes quickly – I can move with the speed of thought – but I still have to sift through them until I get the right one. It's not like the true brain, that goes directly to the image it wants." He started to pick up a small porcelain dog on a side table, then realized his fingers went right through it, and sighed.

"At least you have the memories," said Harry. "Something familiar that you can live with."

"Not really," Snape said quietly, not looking at Harry. "I never liked to remember them before. I always locked them away. Shut them where I didn't have to see them. I didn't want to relive the bad ones, and the good ones just reminded me of what I'd lost. I always lived in the present – classes, grading assignments, my colleagues, newspapers, books. Now the only place I can live is the past, and I don't have total control over what I have to see. I wish I could sleep, but it's the body that needs sleep."

"The mind needs sleep, too," Harry pointed out. "At least that's what my teachers taught us."

"But I'm not a complete mind. I'm partial and fragmented. A consciousness surrounded by memories. It isn't the same thing."

Harry reflected on this for a moment. "What about the things that happened since you 'woke up' in the bottle?" he asked. "The things that aren't memory strands, like the contortionist at Covent Garden or being inside McGonagall's brain. Do you have images of them?"

Snape turned to regard Harry, the hopeful concentration of his face remarkably similar to the absorption of his younger self in front of the television. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I do. They're like regular memories. There aren't very many of them, though."

"Then we just have to get you more," said Harry. "Where do you want to go?"

"Is that really a solution? It's just a different kind of memory."

"I'll take you anywhere you want."

"Don't you understand, Potter? Right now this is easy for you because it's a novelty. You're excited about finding a solution to a short term problem and mapping out places to visit, but it's not going to last. You have your own life. You can't spend the rest of it helping me live mine. And what if it never ends? What if you die, but I can't?"

"If it came to that," Harry said, "you could always ask me to destroy the flask."

A forlorn looked flitted across Snape's features. "I've been thinking about that," he said. "I've existed outside the flask and the pensieve already. What if destroying the flask doesn't destroy me? I might remain, a speck of conscious awareness without even memories and totally unable to make contact with anyone else in the world. Just floating… And you wouldn't have a way of knowing which had happened."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Harry.

"I have," said Snape. "A lot."

Harry stood and began to pace. "All right," he said as moved across the sitting room of the small cottage, "we have problems without solutions. But that doesn't matter right now because right now we wouldn't want to 'solve' them anyway. We still have to get that other flask and be sure there's no residue of Voldemort to rise again. Meanwhile, we have several temporary solutions to your immediate problem, like the broomstick, books, newspapers… and I can isolate the bad memories where you can't accidentally fall into them. We can make your life reasonably comfortable, even provide some pleasurable experiences, while we work on our mission. Maybe in the course of accomplishing that, we'll find the answers to the long term problems."

Snape agreed, and Harry returned him to the flask so Snape could relocate the memory of Dumbledore's office where he planned to spend the next few hours. Harry hurried downstairs, made his excuses to Mrs. Purdy, and went for take-away – Indian food this time – and a batch of different newspapers and magazines. Returning, he found Snape in the office talking to the little portrait of Dumbledore he'd gotten as a present.

"It works," Snape said, showing Harry the diptych.

"I can see that," said Harry. "What's more, I can hear it. Good evening, Professor Dumbledore."

"Good evening, Harry. What's that you're carrying?"

"Professor Snape's dinner and some reading material. I was thinking of seeing if Ron and Hermione wanted to go out to dinner. If there are any books you want her to get, I could pass the word." This last was to Snape.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. You did say all my things had been kept at Hogwarts?"

"Now be reasonable about your requests, Severus," said Dumbledore. "I do not believe that they have been sorted or catalogued yet, and it may take some time for Miss Granger to find a particular work."

"These shouldn't be hard. It's a set of paperback murder mysteries that take place in medieval England. Light, entertaining reading. They were in the bedroom next to the office. I never moved them while I was headmaster because neither Slughorn nor Carrow used those rooms. McGonagall will know if they've been moved since."

"I'll tell her," said Harry, and left for Diagon Alley.

Ron was delighted when Harry walked into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, especially when he noted that Harry was not carrying his briefcase. "You finally got shed of old Snape, I see," he said, nudging Harry in the ribs. "I was beginning to think the two of you had wedding plans or something."

"Don't be mean, Ron," said Hermione from the back. "I think it's nice that the two of them have found some common ground, especially now that we know the truth. You've no idea how guilty I felt after he died."

"What! You never did…"

"I didn't think you'd understand. But I thought about it a lot later on, how I just stood there and let him die, and I didn't do one thing, not one spell to even try to stop his bleeding. Then we found out that all that time we were hating him, he was trying to protect us. Imagine dying surrounded by people who hate you, when… At least now we have the chance to tell him we understand."

"Hey there, Wonder Boy!" George cried from the back room. "You up for supper with a bunch of old friends? I just got hold of Ginny by floo to tell her you're here, and she says she can get permission to go to Hogsmeade and have dinner at the Three Broomsticks."

"I'd like that," Harry grinned, so George put the 'Closed' sign on the door, finished with the last few customers, and they all apparated to just outside Hogsmeade to find Ginny already waiting for them at a table in Madam Rosmerta's establishment.

It was fun ordering their favorite foods, with butterbeers all around, and Ginny regaling them with stories of what was happening at the school, though they did pause for a moment to remember fallen friends, especially Fred and Colin. George and Ron told about a new pill they'd made that would cause your nose and chin to grow out until they nearly touched, and Harry countered with the spell that made toenails grow.

"That's a good one," laughed George. "I remember learning something similar from… Where'd you get it?"

"It was in the Prince's book," Harry replied, then became suddenly sad.

"Who's the Prince?" George asked, so Harry told him all about the Advanced Potion Making book.

"Whew," George whistled when he finished. "Old Snape thought up all of that? I knew he was good, but not that good." He rubbed his hands together. "Where's this book now?"

"Destroyed," said Hermione sadly. "Harry put it in the Room of Requirement, in the place where people stored old things and junk, and it was burned up in Crabbe's Fiendfyre spell."

"Rotten luck!" George exclaimed. "How many of those spells and potions do you remember?"

"I never even got to all of them," admitted Harry, "but maybe you could talk to him about it. I was just now thinking that when he was a student, he may have been a lot like you. Most of the stuff I was reading in his book, well it sounded a lot like the hexes and jinxes you sell in your shop. Hermione always disliked them."

"Hermione hates most of the stuff we sell, too," Ron chuckled. "But you're right. I think I liked the Prince because he seemed so much like Fred and George. Strange how he grew up to be Snape."

"How are you getting along with Snape, Harry?" Ginny asked. "He seemed different at the party. Friendlier somehow. But then all the other teachers and Dumbledore were there, too."

"It's really strange," Harry replied. "It's like we've changed places. He always used to be the one with the power and authority, and I had to do what he said, and now he can't read a newspaper unless I bring it to him. He was so used to being in control, and now he can't even control his own memories. He's scared. You know one of the things he's scared of? He's afraid he'll never die, and he'll be stuck in that bottle for the rest of eternity. Even if I get him everything he needs or wants, he still has to depend on me to get it. He'll never be independent again. Never."

"That's so sad," said Ginny, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

"I've been checking in the library at Hogwarts and in our law library," Hermione said. "I was hoping someone else had had a similar problem, but it appears to be unique. It did seem he was able to inhabit someone else's brain, though. He was in McGonagall's."

"He was in mine," Harry admitted, and told about their excursion to Diagon Alley.

"Eeewww," Ron shuddered. "Letting Snape in your head. Ugh."

"I don't know," George mused. "I bet he'd notice things I don't. And recognize more people. How long was he teaching at Hogwarts? Sixteen years? At forty new students a year… plus the seconds through sevenths in his first year teaching… plus when he was a student… when were your parents born, Harry? Merlin! He's gone to school with or taught nearly half the wizarding world! Think what that kind of knowledge could do in a business!"

"McGonagall would know even more people," Hermione pointed out, "as would Flitwick or Hagrid."

"Yeah," George laughed, "but you just try putting Hagrid inside your head. Snape can go inside your brain and feed you all sorts of neat information. Do you think I could talk to him again, Harry?"

"I don't think he'd like the idea," Harry said with a smile. "He still tends to be kind of prudish and law abiding."

"Right, but if he was once this Prince, that law abiding stuff has got to be just a veneer. I bet I could talk him back into his true self…"

Hermione's hand came down on the table with a resounding slap. "George Weasley you will do no such thing!" she insisted.

"Aw come on, 'Mione," cried Ron. "It could be fun!"

"And he would still be just as dependent on you as he is on Harry now. What we need is to find a way to free him, not enslave him more."

"That's what I need!" Ginny exclaimed suddenly. "I need Snape in my head when I sit for my NEWTs. I'd ace everything! Straight Os!"

Harry chuckled. "The ladies at the boarding house thought he was a genie in a bottle. He can't grant wishes, so he told them he was a kind of sprite."

George and Ron burst out laughing, but Hermione nodded solemnly. "Since the word 'sprite' comes from the Latin spiritus, meaning spirit or soul, that was a very apt suggestion."

That didn't stop the Weasley brothers. "I thought a sprite was a kind of elf," Ron crowed.

"Or a fairy," George howled. "A Cornish pixie! Pixilated Professor Snape!"

"I don't think that's funny," said Hermione, stifling a smile.

"I do," Ginny giggled. "But why couldn't he grant wishes? Can't he still do magic?"

The laughter stopped as they all turned to Harry. "I don't know," Harry said. "I mean, inside the memories he can. He tried…" He took a deep breath. "The first time I saw him in a memory, he didn't know he'd died. He thought I was inside his head. Then he tried to leave the memory using magic. It was like throwing himself against the school shields. That's when I first started feeling sorry for him. It was like watching an animal in a trap."

"I thought he could leave the memories," said Hermione.

"He can, by turning inward, into himself, and dropping out of it, but that first time he tried to use magic. The magic was there, but the memory was stronger."

George leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his fists. "What about when he's outside the memory, on the surface of the pensieve. Can he use magic then?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I don't think he's tried."

They changed the subject and talked a while longer about other things, then Harry went home.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," said Mrs. Nokes as he came through the area yard door. "We missed you at dinner. How is that cute little sprite of yours doing?"

It was an effort, but Harry was able to control his impulse to snicker at hearing Snape called cute. "He's fine, ma'am. I went out with some friends, and he's resting."

"Wish him good night for me."

"I'll do that, ma'am."

On the way upstairs, Harry reflected that Mrs. Nokes had only seen Snape as a tiny creature, less than five inches high, and that, slender as he was, everything about him probably appeared delicate and doll-like. The thread Harry pulled from the flask was the same one Snape had been in when Harry saw him last. He was no longer talking to Dumbledore, but sitting in a wing-backed chair having some of the cheese and port Harry had given him the night before and reading the Times.

"How was your evening," Snape asked as Harry popped into the memory.

"Really nice, thanks. Ginny's going to look for your books and pass them on to Hermione. George wants to talk to you about pranks for his joke shop."

Snape closed the newspaper, folded it carefully, and laid it aside. "And why would George Weasley want to do that?" he asked ominously.

"We were talking about spells, and I mentioned your Potions book."

"Where is my Potions book, by the way?"

"It was destroyed." Harry explained about Crabbe and the Fiendfyre, and the destruction of Ravenclaw's diadem. As he talked, he watched Snape become more somber and depressed. "I did tell you that Crabbe died," Harry said. "You knew that."

"You did. But burning to death…" Snape closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. "It's always sad when the young die. It was good of you to rescue Goyle and Malfoy."

They were silent for a moment. Then Harry ventured, "I wasn't exactly truthful when I told you I'd only seen four memories that you hadn't chosen. When you first gave them to me, that day of the battle, I saw a bunch of them. It was important. It was where I learned I had to let Voldemort kill me in order to destroy him. But I also saw other memories with you and my mother and with you and Dumbledore. My mom was angry because you were hanging around with this student named Mulciber, but I never thought the spells in your book were that bad."

"They weren't," Snape sighed. "The only time she ever complained about a specific spell of mine was when I was retaliating against… against your father and Black for something they did to me. When I told her what they did, she admitted I showed considerable restraint. But she really didn't like me being around other Slytherin students. I don't see how I could have avoided it, being a Slytherin student myself. I always thought it was rather unfair of her, that it was all right for her to have all those friends, but I couldn't have any."

"But there was that time you called her…"

"May we talk about something else, please. Or isn't it about time for you to be going to bed?"

"Sorry." Harry paused. "Ginny and George want to know if you can do magic outside when you're at the surface of the pensieve."

Snape raised his head. "I don't know," he said. "It never occurred to me to try. I just assumed…"

"Would you like to try now?" Harry suggested.

The look of sharp, focused concentration returned to Snape's face. "I think I would," he said.

Harry left the pensieve and waited for the little gray mist to appear. Then he touched it with his wand and Snape was standing before him above the pensieve – diminutive and graceful, almost dainty in the frail elegance of his tiny form. Mrs. Nokes knew him no other way. Harry smiled to himself. 'Cute' might even be called an understatement. He wasn't about to tell Snape about it, though.

Snape was holding his wand. It struck Harry that this was probably an exercise in futility since neither wizard nor wand was corporeal, but it was still worth a try.

"What shall I do?" Snape asked.

Harry looked around at the small cartons of take-away food whose essential spirit had gone into the pensieve, food that would now have to be thrown away. "Can you clean out one of those?" he asked.

Snape regarded the cartons, each one taller than he was, with care. Then, with a flick of his wrist and extension of his arm, he cried, _"Scourgify!"_ A thread-like beam of light left the wand and struck one of the cartons. Instantly, it was emptied and cleaned.

"You did it!" Harry exclaimed. "You cleaned it!"

"Really?" said Snape skeptically. "Are you sure it wasn't already clean? After all, I'm not tall enough to see inside."

For reply, Harry took another food carton, tilted it to show Snape the spiced chicken inside, and let Snape try his Scourgify spell again. Again, it worked. Snape then attempted several levitation spells with varying results.

"It would appear," Harry said as Snape failed for the third time to lift Harry's bed in the back room, "that size matters. I guess it's just too big." He carried the pensieve and Snape back into the front room.

"What's in that other room?" Snape asked.

"That? It's just a spare room. All the floors have three. I'm the only one who has an entire floor. Down below, each room has a different occupant. I think they use magic to make them larger when you're inside."

"What do you use this spare room for?"

Harry shrugged. "Stuff. I don't enlarge the rooms with magic, so I use it for storage. It's got my school books, my broom, some extra furniture that was here before I moved in…"

"Is there a chair?"

"What do you need a chair for? You can sit on the chairs in the pensieve."

"Yes, but I can't move them. If I want to sit down at a table, I either have to find a place where the chair is moved back or turned to one side, or I have to let my body pass through the table to use the chair. It's rather disconcerting, and it would be nice to have a spot in here where I could maintain at least the illusion that I was still real."

"I'm pretty sure there's a couple of chairs," Harry said, and carried the pensieve into the room, flipping the light switch as he did so because it was night and dark.

"You have electricity!" Snape cried. "You didn't tell me that!"

"I thought you saw that in the other room."

"I didn't notice. All I knew was that it was light. I didn't check where the light came from. What are you doing with electricity inside a wizard's home? Oh."

The 'oh' came so unexpectedly that Harry reacted to it first. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I just realized that I haven't been in very many wizards' homes. Just the Blacks', the Malfoys', Death Eater headquarters… I don't really know what wizard homes have."

"The Weasleys don't have electricity either," Harry told him, "or anyplace else I've been, so I guess you're right. They're different here, though. They even know enough to dress properly among muggles. Mrs. Nokes won't let us apparate from inside the rooms or use floo powder anywhere but the fireplace in the kitchen…"

"There's a fireplace in the kitchen?"

"Yeah. It's an old house. I mean, a lot of the houses here are more than a hundred years old, but I think this one is even older. It's squeezed between two buildings full of shops and offices, and I think Mrs. Nokes controls how much and what kind of magic we use here to keep it stable. She's the one who decides how big the rooms are. She was pleased I wanted the whole top floor because that meant she didn't have to magic the size of the rooms."

"What if you'd wanted to live like a king?"

"But I didn't want to live like a king."

"Never mind," said Snape.

There were a couple of quite acceptable wooden chairs and some other small pieces of furniture, so Snape decided he would look for a place that he could turn into another personal area where things could be more real, where he could have items he could pick up and move around, bookcases with accessible books, and writing materials. It was a project that would take time to put together and would keep him happily occupied for a few days.

Placing Snape back into the emerald coffin, Harry went to bed.

Thursday and Friday were routine, though at the Ministry Harry had to answer solicitous questions about his health and assure everyone he was fine. In his memory world, Snape was reasonably content with his meals and newspapers and his search for the perfect hideaway, and each evening he had a few memories for Harry to put into the new carafe so that he wouldn't have to look at them. Hermione visited Friday evening with Snape's books and stayed to chat for twenty minutes before going to be with Ron. Nothing extraordinary happened. Nothing exciting happened… It was all really quite dull.

xxxxxxxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

_Saturday, January 23, 1999_

At three o'clock Saturday morning, Harry woke suddenly from a dream he could not remember and lay staring at the ceiling. It was then, for the first time, that he was seized by a powerful desire to view the memories Snape was avoiding. It was, Harry rationalized, a way to find out more about Voldemort, so he threw off his blanket and padded into the front room on bare feet to open the decanter and put one of its memories into the pensieve…

It was night. Harry, looking around, realized he was in the graveyard below the Riddle house in Little Hangleton. It wasn't a place he wanted to be, but a quick glance around told him there was no one else…

A movement to his left drew Harry's attention. It was Snape, who must have apparated in only a few seconds before. He was surveying the area slowly and then, satisfied that the immediate vicinity was empty of others, he started up the hill toward the house. Harry, knowing what he was about to witness, followed, a feeling of anticipation rising in him.

Partway up the gravel walk a series of percussive pops erupted around Snape. He was surrounded by masked Death Eaters, and neither protested nor struggled when they seized and tied his hands behind him and extracted his wand. Then Harry heard Snape's sharp gasp of pain as his elbows were wrenched backwards, followed instantly by the voice of Lucius Malfoy cautioning that the captors not exceed their commission, Wormtail's hungry desire for 'fun,' and the consensus – to Harry's great relief – that Malfoy be obeyed. With Snape in their midst, and Harry tagging behind, the group entered the dilapidated Riddle mansion and went upstairs to a large room, maybe once a dining room or ballroom, where Voldemort sat enthroned, waiting.

The room they entered, Harry saw instantly, was a treasure trove of objects and old black and white photographs, probably belonging to the Riddle family. Trying to concentrate on the contents of the room rather than on the red-eyed tyrant and his kneeling victim, Harry edged his way over to a mantel arrayed, Victorian fashion, with knick-knacks and family pictures. He had no time to study them, however, for at that moment Voldemort murmured _"Crucio!'_ and Snape began to scream.

Harry sank at once to his own knees and huddled by the fireplace, overwhelmed by the memory of the times he, too, had been hit by the Cruciatus curse. He hated it, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the tormented figure of the bound, helpless potions master as he twisted and writhed in the midst of the circle of Death Eaters. Second after slow second ticked by, and Harry understood that this would last far longer than anything he himself had endured. He turned his face away, his eyes clamped shut, and thrust his fingers into his ears in an attempt to block out the sound…

Then, suddenly, the room went black and still as Snape fainted. Harry was on his feet at once, fleeing the memory as fast as he could into the safety of his own boarding house room. There he stood for a moment, breathing heavily, before walking briskly into the bathroom and being sick to his stomach.

_I have to go back,_ Harry told himself later, looking out his window at the dark sky. _I have to inspect that room. I have no good memories of the Riddle house. Just flashes of things I saw through Voldemort's eyes. And that's probably the only memory of that room that Snape has. I have to go back and look around._

The time when Harry had thought he might enjoy the spectacle of Snape being tortured was long gone. He scanned his rooms for inspiration, then remembered an old trick passed down from year to year by generations of Hogwarts students condemned to sleep in dormitories. Pulling out his wand, he conjured a pair of earplugs. Those in place, he entered the memory again.

Death Eaters popped out of the darkness, Malfoy and Wormtail argued, the procession climbed the stairs to the great chamber where the crimson-eyed lord sat, and this time Harry resolutely turned his back, ignoring the scene in the center of the room and carefully examining each and every one of the figurines, ornaments, and pictures, all coated with a film of dust.

The room went dark, but a moment later light returned as Snape regained his senses. Harry turned and removed the earplugs. Snape was on his knees as Voldemort questioned him concerning Barty Crouch's reports of his occlumency and Snape pleaded that it was beyond his control. Three Death Eaters, one of whom Voldemort called Macnair just as Harry recognized the Ministry employee sent to execute Buckbeak, moved in to hold Snape motionless while Voldemort's thumbs forced his eyelids open and Macnair's Ignis spells slammed into his skull. _That's why he was wearing the neck brace,_ Harry thought, remembering Snape in Dumbledore's office. It wasn't long before the room went dark again.

When light returned, Voldemort was gone and the unmasked Death Eaters were tending to a groggy but unbound Snape, giving him water to drink and welcoming him back into their questionable fraternity. Suspecting that his time was limited, and not wanting to relive the memory any more than was necessary, Harry went back to his inspection.

One among a group of photographs in a glass-fronted cabinet in a far corner caught Harry's eye because it was moving to see what was happening in the center of the room. _Wizard's photos belong to Voldemort,_ Harry thought, and went closer. It was the picture of a dark-haired, dark-eyed Slytherin student that Harry almost, but not quite, recognized. He was standing in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, posing with a slim book in his hand. It was the book that riveted Harry's attention, for it was Tom Riddle's diary.

The group of Death Eaters was moving; the memory was ending. Quickly Harry scanned the shelves. Just below the student with the diary was another wizard photo, this one of a much younger Deirdre Dowd reclining coquettishly in a chair with her chin in her palm, her elbow on a small table. Next to her on the table was a bottle, a flask, shaped like a miniature coffin. Then, just as the memory ended, Harry saw the third photo. He had no time to study it, but the young woman in it was unmistakably a youthful Mrs. Nokes…

Snape was in the memory of Pendle Hill. At least that was what Harry assumed, since he tumbled onto the hill when he entered the memory. "Professor!" he yelled. "Professor! I need to talk to you!" He continued yelling until he saw the figure on the broom approaching, and then he stood waving his arms.

"I thought you were going to call me just Snape," Snape said as he touched down a little awkwardly on Pendle's summit.

"It doesn't feel right," Harry replied. "Look, you have to come with me right now. I was in one of the other memories, and I've discovered something really impor…"

"What. Were you doing. In one of MY memories?" Snape demanded. "I do NOT recall giving you permission."

"I needed to see the inside of the Riddle mansion, and I knew you wouldn't give it," Harry replied, knowing this to be a lie with regard to original motive, but not so any more.

Snape had frozen, his face stark and bleak. "I didn't want you to see that," he said quietly.

"I didn't want to see it. I don't want to see it again. But I'm glad I did. I'm only beginning to realize how much I owe…"

"You have NO RIGHT!" Snape screamed suddenly, throwing the broom to the ground and advancing with hands balled into fists at his sides. "NO right to invade my privacy! NO right to use me for your own entertainment! NO right…"

"SHUT UP AND STOP BEING SO SELFISH!" Harry screamed back. "YOU have no right to withhold information we NEED to fight VOLDEMORT!" Snape went rigid with shock and anger, and in the pause it provided, Harry added, "Did you know there were photographs of Mrs. Nokes and Deirdre Dowd in that room where you were tortured?"

Snape started a retort, then stared at Harry, blinked, and swallowed. "N… no," he stammered. "I… didn't."

"Not only that," Harry continued. "In the photo, Miss Dowd is sitting next to – NEXT TO – the other soulstone coffin, and there's another picture of a man holding the diary horcrux. You have to come into the memory with me and help me identify what's there."

"No," said Snape, "I can't do that."

"Coward!" Harry sneered.

Snape leapt at him then, his hands reaching for Harry's throat rather than going for his wand, and Harry fell over backwards at the impact. They rolled a ways down the hill on the grass, Harry grasping Snape's wrists tightly to keep him from punching, and when they stopped, Snape was on his back with Harry astride him, pinning Snape's arms to the ground. It was only beginning to register to Harry that he was bigger and stronger than the older wizard.

"Now you listen to me!" Harry yelled. "You're going into that memory with me, and you're going to help me figure out what those pictures mean and if there are any more of them! I can give you earplugs so you don't have to hear anything. If we're fast, you only have to do it once. Then you can come back here, and you'll never have to think of it again because there won't be any images in your head. They'll all be in the decanter. Now stop struggling so I can let you up!"

Snape relaxed, and Harry rolled onto the grass and sat up as Snape pushed himself into a sitting position next to him. "You're right," Snape said after a moment. "There won't be any images to remember. Only while I'm actually there." They sat quietly on the hillside for a few moments watching birds soar overhead, then Snape rose. "Let's get it over with," he snapped, and vanished.

Harry was up and out of the pensieve as fast as he could go. Quickly conjuring a second set of earplugs, he dove into the Voldemort memory where pensieve Snape had already outdistanced his memory self climbing the dark hill toward the mansion. Harry caught up with him and handed him the earplugs, which Snape inserted in his ears. They were unable to enter the house until the group of Death Eaters got closer, but then suddenly the front door was insubstantial. Snape walked right through it and up the stairs to the large room, Harry on his heels and the Death Eaters bringing up the rear with their prisoner.

Harry and Snape went directly to the glass fronted cabinet where Harry pointed to the Slytherin student with the diary. Next they examined Deirdre Dowd's photograph, which flirted with them, winking and smiling. Then the one with Mrs. Nokes. They had to hurry, as it was nearing the point where memory Snape would pass out, but working different sides of the room they managed to at least glance at everything before the room went dark.

When the room became light again. Harry turned towards the place where Snape had been standing, only to see him, wand extended and pulling the earplugs from his ears, advancing on memory Voldemort at the center of the room, where Snape's memory self already knelt to receive further punishment.

"MONSTER!" Snape shouted, his slender frame vibrating with fury. "Vile disgusting BEAST! DEVIL! You ruined my LIFE!" A red bolt shot harmlessly through the image of Voldemort, but around Snape the air was shimmering with power. "You set Rabastan Lestrange on me when I was TWELVE YEARS OLD!" More bolts ricocheted across the memory room, bolts Harry miraculously dodged. "You killed EVERYTHING I ever LOVED!"

Around them the memory was pulsing and beginning to break apart.

"I'LL KILL YOU! WHY DIDN'T I KILL YOU?"

"Professor!" Harry screamed. Snape paid him no attention. Harry moved to intercept Snape and was cast aside, not by the wand but by some kind of force that emanated from Snape's body. It spun in a vortex around him and tore at the filaments of the chair Voldemort sat in and the robes of the Death Eaters.

"FIEND!" Snape howled as he launched bolt after bolt, and the figures in the center of the room began to unravel. "VILLAIN! DEMON! YOU DAMNED ME!" Great gashes were rending and tattering the walls around them. "I'LL DAMN YOU!" A whirlwind whipped through the shards of thought.

There was no time to lose. Wielding his wand like a sword, with every cutting and penetrating spell that he knew, Harry slashed his way through the energy surrounding him and flung his arms around Snape. "Get out!" he shouted. "We have to get out! He's still out there somewhere and we have to get out and bring him down!"

Harry's voice must have penetrated Snape's consciousness, for he suddenly ceased his attack. Staring wildly at the disintegrating figure of Voldemort, he spun away, taking Harry with him. Harry was thrown from the pensieve with such violence that he staggered back against the opposite wall, then rushed forward just in time to see the memory he'd escaped collapse inward, then burst out again in a silent miniature explosion that shredded its fabric and dissolved its component molecules into the ocean of air above it.

"Professor!" Harry screamed, but there was no tiny circle of gray mist in the pensieve. Frantic, Harry scanned the floor around him, for he'd been holding Snape when they left the memory. He saw nothing and knew that time was running out. Seizing his wand, he held out his hand and cried, _"Accio Snape!"_ not knowing if his action was futile or inspired.

Harry didn't see where the gray threadlike mist came from, only that it coalesced above his outstretched palm. Moving quickly, but with exquisite care, he took it to the table and eased it into the pensieve. When the gray circle slipped into the Pendle memory, Harry was able to first breathe again, and then follow.

Snape was lying face down on the grass at the top of Pendle hill, his right arm flung out, still holding the wand. Harry sat beside him and struggled to lift his head and upper body across Harry's leg so that Snape's face wouldn't be pressed into the earth. "Professor?" Harry said. "Professor, are you all right?"

Snape shifted slowly, as if in pain. "I've been better," he said. "Tell Longbottom if he ever does that again…"

Harry laughed. "I'm afraid that was you, Professor. Wow. I guess all those times we messed up in class, you really were trying to control your reactions. I should've been more appreciative." Snape shifted his body again, and Harry helped him turn over and sit up. "What in the world was that?"

"Hagrid has referred to it as a telekinetic tantrum," Snape confessed. "Dumbledore said it was to be expected from an occlumens who kept himself bottled up all the time. With no other way to relieve pressure, eventually there has to be an explosion."

"I don't like the sound of that," said Harry, "especially since you're 'bottled up' all the time now. How often do you do this?"

"Only three times before in my life," Snape replied. "Once against Bella, and twice against Dumbledore. In case you're wondering, it isn't fun from my side either." He pulled his knees toward his chest and rested his head on them. "What happened to the memory?"

"I think it was destroyed."

"I'm sorry about that. We might have needed it again."

"That's okay," said Harry. "We can still try my memory of being inside your memory and see if that works."

Leaving his knees bent, Snape lay back on the grass. Harry copied him, once again watching the birds. "Do you know who was holding the diary?"

"I think so. He looked almost like Rodolphus Lestrange. I imagine it was his father. That may be where Bella got the diary. The Dark Lord passed it from father to son to wife. You know, she left it with her sister when she went after the Longbottoms, and that's how Lucius got it."

"That was one spirit container," said Harry. "Dumbledore thought it was a horcrux. Do you think it was both? Can one object do both? We know about the soulstone coffin and Miss Deirdre. What was that thing with Mrs. Nokes? It looked like Humpty Dumpty except for the big head."

"Who's that?" Snape asked.

"He was an egg that fell off a wall. It's from a nursery rhyme. How can you know so much and still know so little?"

"Knowledge is dependent on life experience, Potter, and therefore partially random. I assume you're referring to the body shape. Ovoid cinerary urn with small attached arms and a cover shaped like a human head. Ask Granger to bring us books about Etruscans. Meanwhile, we need to talk to the ladies."

Saying was not the same as doing, however, so Harry and Snape stayed for a while on top of the hill watching the small scudding clouds and the swift soaring birds. After a while, Snape said, "I wish to apologize to you, Potter. I attacked you physically just as if I were some testosterone-brained Gryffindor. I haven't done that since I went for your father in '76."

"Why was that, sir?" Harry asked.

"Why? You saw the beginning of it that day when you looked into the pensieve in my office. You obviously didn't see the end. Bella came charging out with half Slytherin house in my defense, and your father and Sirius backed down. McGonagall finally appeared to confiscate the wands, and I was released from the spells. I… eh… jumped your father, and was told later that in the midst of a howling mob of schoolboys it took Hagrid to separate us. The other students wouldn't let Sirius intervene."

"Who won?"

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor. We appear to have been relatively evenly matched. He had more muscle, and I had more spirit. No one won."

"That's all right, then," said Harry. "What happens now?"

"When Dumbledore and I first discussed the diary, we both thought about horcruxes. Now I'm not so sure. I mean, seven – that's a lot of soul fragments. And he was stopped by Amelia Bones. What if seven really was the maximum? One was his family – the ring. Then the founders – the locket, the cup, the diadem, and you – then Nagini – then finally himself. The diary…"

"Wait a minute," said Harry. "I was one of the Founder horcruxes?"

"Does not every Gryffindor student belong to Godric Gryffindor?"

"I never thought of it like that."

"Neither did he apparently." Snape paused. "It may have been his greatest weakness. Not thinking like that, I mean. He may not have realized that the diary wasn't a horcrux – especially if it was the first one and he botched the job. Or he may have known all along that it wasn't, and it was only Dumbledore – and me, of course – who ever suspected that it was. There were no pictures of horcruxes in that room, but there were three pictures of spirit containers. No more than that. One of them we already know has been destroyed."

"Where do you think the other containers are?"

"I have no idea, but I believe the ladies have. They may not know it, though. Potter, have you ever heard of hypnotic suggestion?"

"No," said Harry, no longer worried about exhibiting ignorance. "What's that?"

"What I'm thinking of," said Snape, "is knowledge that is concealed from the knower. Miss Deirdre knew nothing of soul flasks until she saw yours. Then part of her memory opened. None of Mrs. Nokes's memory has yet opened. There should, however, be a code that opens the memory. Find it, and Miss Deirdre will remember all there is to know about spirit flasks. Find it, and Mrs. Nokes will recall all about the Etruscan funerary jar."

"A code," Harry mourned. "That could be impossible to find."

"Not necessarily," said Snape. "Think about it. If the Dark Lord wants to be reborn, it's in his interests that the code not be too hard. It should not take years for the carrier to run across it. It should be something unusual before his demise, but common after."

"Like 'Voldemort is dead?'"

"Well, maybe not that simplistic, but something similar, yes."

"Then we need to talk to them."

"Steady, Potter. We don't want to alarm them. That might be connected to another code. We don't want the residue of Lord Voldemort to be alerted to our search. What time is it? Outside, I mean."

It was, it turned out, six o'clock, an hour before weekend breakfast. Snape suggested they adjourn to Dumbledore's office, it being more congenial to discussion and also the place where he'd left Dumbledore's portrait.

"By the way," Snape asked as they entered the memory where his neck-braced self sat forever in the corner reading, "do you happen to know what _kahnees_ and _waheenees_ are?"

"I never heard of them," said Harry. "Where did you?"

"It's on these records McGonagall gave me. I think _waheenee_ means a girl because one of them says, 'That _waheenee_ is a gal apart,' which should mean that a _kahnee_ is a boy, but I'd rather be sure. And then there's _'kah-may-ha-may-ha-spal-ay_' and the _hoo-moo_-what's-it that goes swimming by. I need maps and a dictionary or I'll never understand these things."

"I'll ask Hermione," Harry promised.

Asking Hermione took a rather convoluted turn. Snape got his pocket portrait of Dumbledore and Harry passed on his request, which was communicated by Dumbledore to McGonagall. McGonagall in turn contacted Hermione by floo and then reversed the procedure to let Snape know the Hawaiian was being investigated. While they waited for both Hermione and breakfast, Snape and Harry passed the time listening to the records and trying to sound out the words.

"In between the words 'lazy' and 'boy' there's a bunch of Hawaiian, and then that word _'poi_.' And what's a _panini_, and why would you place it under a horse's tail?"

"I haven't a clue," Harry insisted, by now exhausted. "Can I go and wait for Hermione?"

"Of course… But when she gets here, you send her right in."

"I thought you thought she was an insufferable know-it-all."

Snape glared at Harry. "I said that because I was trying to warn you collective lot of dunderheads that you had a werewolf in your midst. She was trying to stop me. Of course I called her 'insufferable,' it was an element of the circumstances. She's worth twelve of the rest of you, you know. Don't tell her I said that."

"She'll never hear it from me," Harry promised, and surfaced from the pensieve.

Hermione showed up fifteen minutes later. "What's that?" she said as soon as she saw the carafe.

"I told you about that. It's for the memories he doesn't want to keep running into. The bad ones."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea." Hermione laid some parcels on the table and bent down to examine the decanter more closely. "I've been researching pensieves. What you're doing shouldn't be possible."

The almost clinical way Hermione said this irritated Harry. He could feel himself getting defensive. "It's just because the situation never existed before. You know that. Nobody ever died like that before. There always has to be a first…"

"I don't mean that. I mean the food, the newspapers, and the birthday presents. They shouldn't be possible. I brought some things for an experiment." She opened the parcels, which contained books, a copy of the Times, a couple of sweet rolls, and another, very familiar pensieve.

"Why'd you bring that?" Harry asked. He picked it up. It was Dumbledore's pensieve from Hogwarts.

"I didn't want to use one that might be contaminated. I'm going to put one of my memories into this one and go inside. You follow, and bring the paper and the food."

Slipping a memory strand into Dumbledore's pensieve, Hermione bent over it. Her body relaxed and became immobile. It really did look rather silly, Harry thought, standing there bent double with your face in a bowl. He picked up the rolls and the newspaper and went in after her.

"Well?" said Hermione, standing next to the Quidditch stands watching the Gryffindor team practicing.

"Well what?"

"Where's my newspaper?"

Harry looked down at his hands. He wasn't holding anything. "I don't know. I brought it. I was holding it. I had it in my hands."

"And it's still in your hands. Only your hands didn't enter the pensieve – just your mind. You can't bring anything, and if you could you couldn't leave it. It's just thought, nothing material. And it's a memory, so it can't be changed by bringing things into it."

The ramifications of this were too great for Harry to even want to focus on them, but he had to. "Why can we do it with Snape's memories?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "It's like the memories in the soulstone coffin are more than memories. They're rooms where he can live a parallel life. It probably has something to do with the soulstone. If you'd put them into anything else, it wouldn't have happened. I'm worried about the memories you've taken out and put into that new container. They might not…"

"He destroyed one of them." There was a sinking feeling in Harry's stomach. He told Hermione about Snape's tearing the Voldemort memory to shreds.

"That's scary," said Hermione when Harry had finished. "I wonder if he can do that with any of his memories, or if it's just the ones that have existed outside the soulstone. It bothers me, too, that that memory doesn't exist anymore. He can just remove things, and we won't ever be able to see them." She thought for a moment. "He can exist in the bottle, and in the memories we put into the pensieve, and alone for at least a short time outside a memory, and in someone else's mind. I need more information and more time to think about it. Come on, Harry. Let's leave this memory and take Professor Snape his books."

The meeting with Snape kept getting sidetracked.

"A _panini_ is a cactus? I suppose that would make the horse go faster…"

"Please, Professor," Hermione sighed, "this could be very important. I need you to try to remember the exact moment when you woke up in this container."

"Since I did not know I was in a container, I am not certain I can pinpoint the exact… Look, I was right! A _wahine_ is a woman or a lady. That must mean…" Snape began flipping through the pages of his little dictionary.

"ProFESSor!" Hermione's patience, never her strong suit, was wearing thin. "Didn't it ever occur to you that the things you can do here are not typical of pensieves?"

"What kind of cheap dictionary is this? They left out half the words! Look at this! They forgot to put in the sections under R… S… T… Granger, you need to return this and get your money…"

"Let me see that," said Hermione, snatching the dictionary from him and thumbing through it herself.

Harry, watching but wisely staying out of the exchange, couldn't help but smile at the change in their relationship. Snape, formerly the one with both power and control, now tried to assert his meager independence by rebelling against Hermione's attempts to direct their conversation. Hermione, on the other hand, was more forceful and domineering.

"Look, it says right here in the introduction that Hawaiian only has twelve letters. There is no R-S-T section."

"Silly language. No wonder they need twelve syllables to name a fish."

"Will you PLEASE concentrate on the problem?"

"I don't see that it's a problem. I'm here, I have access to books and snacks, why does it have to be analyzed?"

"Did you or did you not destroy a memory from inside it?"

Snape glared at Harry. "That's privileged information. I don't have to discuss it." He tried to take the dictionary back from Hermione, but she held tightly to it. "Why are you so upset by this?"

"Because," Hermione said, "I think the flask has the ability to alter things that are put into it, give them energy, make them stronger. It revitalized your… your mind – spirit – whatever it is you are right now. It's made these memories capable of holding a parallel reality inside them. You have the ability to enter the outside world. Harry says you can use your wand in both places. None of that should be happening. It's the flask. And if it's done all that in just two weeks, imagine…"

"…what it could do in forty years." Snape's voice was soft, but full of tension. "Would the flask make anything put into it stronger, more vital and alive? Is that what has you worried?"

"Wait a minute!" Harry cried, stepping forward physically as well as vocally into the discussion. "You're talking about Voldemort's bottle, aren't you? You're thinking that if Voldemort put part of his personality into the other soulstone coffin, like he did with the diary, it could be immensely strong today."

"Precisely," said Hermione with an emphatic nod. "I think it's extremely important that we find out what the soulstone does – how it affects the things that are in it."

"I'm not so sure I like that idea," Snape pouted. "After all, I'm the one you're going to be experimenting on."

"We'll try to be careful," Hermione promised. "Where should we start?"

It was impossible to discuss where to start with Snape in the same room, since he invariably vetoed everything. Not only would he not countenance anything new, he was horrified at the risks he had already taken. The prospect of instant nullification of his being was a strong deterrent to any unproven action whatsoever.

"Look," an exasperated Hermione said a quarter of an hour later, "Harry and I need breakfast. I brought you the sweet rolls, but we can't eat pensieve food. We need to go downstairs. We'll be back in a bit."

Outside the pensieve, with Snape safely back in the emerald flask, Hermione spoke more frankly. "We need to find some way to test the limits of the soulstone containers, whether we have his cooperation or not."

Harry made remonstrating 'tsking' sounds. "I thought it was immoral to use him for our own purposes without his consent."

"Well yes, of course, but with the prospect of a revitalized Voldemort being let loose on the wizarding world…"

"I think," Harry said pointedly, "that you just want an excuse to satisfy your curiosity. Let's go downstairs and get breakfast." Just in case, he took the soulstone coffin and the pensieve with them.

Everyone in the house was at the table as it was about seven-thirty. The early risers had not yet left, and the late risers had arrived. Hermione knew some of them and greeted Mrs. Nokes, the Dowd sisters, and Mr. Ashbrook, with a nod to Mrs. Purdy who was clearing up some of the plates on the sideboard. She was introduced to Mrs. Mallow and Mrs. Garrett, both widows in their sixties, and the inventor Mr. Upton. The Messrs. Sugarman and FitzWalter, respectively an estate agent and a writer of advertising copy, as well as Mr. Whitbeck the artist, were about to leave, and cheerfully gave up their seats to Harry and Hermione.

Harry put the flask and the pensieve on the table while he and Hermione filled their plates from the dishes on the sideboard.

"Oh, is that the genie?" asked Mrs. Garrett. "Arwella has told us all about him."

"More of a sprite than a genie," sniffed Mrs. Nokes, peering through the green crystal. "At least that's what he said. Yes, there's the red thread. Definitely a sprite trap."

"My word," said Mr. Upton, examining not the flask but the basin beside it. "Is that a pensieve? I have heard of them, of course…" He paused. "You don't think I might be able to use for just a moment, do you, Mr. Potter?"

"Do you have something you need to remember or reflect on?" Harry asked, settling down with an ample breakfast while Hermione contented herself with rolls and a cup of coffee.

"I was working on a new idea about two weeks ago, jotted down some vital notes, and now I don't know where I put them. If I could just see the scene again, I know I'd get them back."

"Sure," said Harry. He showed Upton how to extract the memory into the pensieve. Then, because he felt uneasy about letting everyone know that a pensieve image could be entered, he brought it to the surface for viewing.

The resolution to Upton's problem was simplicity itself. His image sat at a table in his small room making notes on a slip of parchment, then got up to take a large volume from his bookshelf. While he was absorbed in more note taking, Mrs. Purdy's voice was heard from below announcing that dinner was ready. Memory Upton closed the book, his notes caught between the pages, and replaced the book on the shelf.

"Of course," the inventor cried, heading immediately for the stairs. Harry had to run after him to make him retrieve his memory from the pensieve first, and then Upton disappeared upstairs, certain not to come down for the rest of the day.

"So that's what it looks like," Arwella said. "That's rather nice. You wanted to see one of the dances, didn't you, except Deirdre interrupted us that day. Did you ever remember about that other bottle, dear?"

"Gone quite out of my head, Wella," replied Deirdre. "You'd think something as odd and important as that would come back to me, but it doesn't."

"Let's see a Hogwarts dance, then," Arwella continued. "I'm ready, and I have just the one"

"Can't we just see the genie first?" pleaded Mrs. Garrett, and Mrs. Mallow seconded the request. "Bring him out for a moment and let us have a look."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but was stopped by an odd sound, a sort of bumping. He looked over at the flask, and was astonished to see that it was rocking slightly back and forth. He seized the flask to hold it steady, removed the stopper, and was about to use his wand to pull out a memory when one of the memory strands left the flask of its own accord and drifted down into the pensieve. A second later the tiny figure of Snape stood poised above the basin.

"I'd like to know, Potter," he snapped, "what good it is having a mood ring if you never look at the dratted thing. And I'll have you know," he turned to the gaping ladies, "that I am not some kind of carnival sideshow to be gawked at like a creature in the zoo."

"How did you do that?" Harry asked, trying to hide his shock from the other boarders.

"Do what?"

"Just… appear."

"You don't think I was going to sit there passively and let you talk about me like that, do you?"

"You were right, Wella dear," said Mrs. Mallow, leaning closer to the pensieve. "He is cute. Like a little fairy prince…"

"Cute!" Snape snapped, his face paling with anger as he drew his wand. "Let's see how cute a nose wart is!"

From the edge of the circle around the table, Hermione cried, _"Petrificus brachium!"_ and Snape's wand arm froze. "It's not nice to give people warts," she remonstrated as Snape spluttered in frustration.

"She called me a fairy prince! That's good for warts, carbuncles and a hairy mole," Snape insisted. "Look at her! She thinks this is funny!"

Mrs. Mallow indeed was not the slightest bit dismayed at the prospect of being given a miniscule wart by a diminutive wizard. She was giggling at the whole exchange. Harry himself found it hard not to chuckle, for Snape's rage seemed much less intimidating now that he was shorter than Harry's hand. Harry forced himself to remember the power that had shredded a memory by implosion from within and had grown to the point where Snape could hear the voices around him and exit his coffin prison at will. It was a sobering thought.

_"Libera brachium,"_ Hermione said quietly, and Snape's arm was free. "We were about to watch one of Miss Arwella's memories," she told him. "A dance from her days at Hogwarts. Back in the forties."

Snape didn't respond to the comment. He was looking at Mrs. Nokes. "Etruscan funerary urn," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Nokes.

Snape shook his head. "Never mind. Potter, I believe it would be most interesting to look at several memories from all these fascinating people. It's a wonderful thing to be able to recall the past. What are you staring at?" he added, turning toward Ashbrook.

"You just don't look or act like a sprite," the author replied.

"No? What's a sprite supposed to look and act like?"

"I really don't know."

"Lovely. We'll continue this conversation after you've done some research. Potter, put me back in the bottle and let the ladies show you their memories."

Harry did as he was bidden, lifting the memory on his wand and replacing it in the flask. As he did so, he noted that the tiny gray mist remained in the pensieve. _I think I know what you're planning,_ he thought. _I hope it works._

The memories that the group shared turned out to be highly entertaining. While watching Arwella's dance, Harry refrained from pointing out the handsome figure of Tom Riddle, not wanting anyone to know that he was already familiar with Riddle's appearance. Arwella did the honors, and the collective female audience commented liberally on his face, clothing, dancing ability, and general charm, Hermione joining them with enthusiasm.

Ashbrook contributed Quidditch games, including the famous 1945 match between Hogwarts and St. Taflan's that he'd told them about. Harry in particular observed that on the slower brooms of half a century earlier, there was more need for coordination among the players and the Snitch was harder to get.

Mrs. Nokes showed the group the farewell feast of her fourth year, where they were able to watch not only her and the Dowd sisters, but also Headmaster Dippet in his prime, a very much younger Dumbledore and Flitwick, the teenage McGonagall, and thirteen-year-old Hagrid. When she returned the memory to her brain, Harry noted that the gray mist had disappeared from the pensieve.

The scene Deirdre chose was Diagon Alley, and they followed her from shop to shop exclaiming at what had changed and what was still there. Harry was intrigued by the fact that of all the people and places, only two appeared not to have altered in the slightest – Gringotts with its goblins, and Ollivander in his wand shop. "I wonder how old he is," Harry mused, but no one suggested an answer.

In the middle of inspecting the 1940's version of Flourish and Blotts, Mrs. Nokes suddenly said, "Waikiki."

"Ma'am?" responded Harry, now quite sure of what was happening. "Were you ever there?"

"I was, in fact," Mrs. Nokes replied. "I can't imagine why it suddenly came to mind, though."

"Oh," exclaimed Hermione, quick on the uptake. "Could you show us a bit of Hawaii?"

Hawaii in the early 1950s, before the advent of the luxury hotels, was beautiful. Then Harry and Hermione excused themselves, claiming work that needed to be done. Harry fished out a memory so that the 'sprite' could take his leave of the company and be replaced in his bottle, and the three of them went back upstairs.

"Well?" Harry asked when they were together in Dumbledore's pensieve study.

"There's a memory locked down," Snape told him. "I couldn't get into it. It does seem like some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion. I did, however, come across the words. At least I think they're the words. There's some special significance to the phrase 'Voldemort 'as gone.'"

"Has gone?" Hermione asked. "Or is gone."

"That's rather interesting. The sound is indefinite, as if trying to allow for Voldemort's gone, has gone, or is gone, all at once. It could be included in a larger sentence – Lord Voldemort has gone for good, for example – and still be the key that unlocks the door. I must confess that I find it somewhat disturbing that the Dark Lord would be planning something that would take place after he died. I never got the impression that he ever contemplated actually dying."

"Maybe we'll find the answers when we locate the containers," Hermione suggested.

"Which brings us to another problem," Harry pointed out. "What are we going to do when we find the containers? I'm not too thrilled with the idea of just opening them."

"That would hardly be wise," Snape agreed. "Especially if what's in them has been getting stronger in the interim. This is no place for hot-shot heroes."

"What if she's supposed to do it?" Hermione asked. "What if the code is the signal not only to find the container, but to open it as well?"

"It probably is," said Harry. "Maybe it's the same code for both women. We'd better use it where only one at a time can hear us. We don't want to be in the position of splitting up to follow both at the same time."

"What if they've already heard the phrase and the containers are already open?"

"I can assure you, Miss Granger," Snape said, "that at least in the case of Mrs. Nokes that is not true. That part of her brain is still locked. And the two move in circles where the Dark Lord would more likely be referred to as 'You-Know-Who' rather than by his name. There's an interesting thought. What if he hoped to be reconstituted immediately, but has been thwarted by the reluctance of the wizarding world to say his name?"

"I say," said Harry, "that we thank Merlin for small mercies. Anything that keeps him locked up until we have a chance to get to him is a good thing."

"How do we know there are only two?" Hermione asked.

"There were only three pictures in the Riddle mansion," Harry explained. "The diary, the urn, and the soulstone coffin, together with their keepers. If he'd made more, I think he would have had more pictures."

"Three is a powerful number, too," Snape added. "Seven horcruxes and three resurrections. It sounds like him."

For 'Operation Mrs. Nokes,' Harry put Snape into his own head. He was immediately aware of a change in their relationship. The Snape personality was now able to move almost instantaneously from one area of the brain to another, requiring no pauses in order to communicate. In addition, Snape could speak directly into Harry's brain and read Harry's surface thoughts. It crossed Harry's mind that if Snape got any stronger he might be able to control a body he was inhabiting. Harry wasn't sure he liked that idea. In fact, he knew he didn't like it at all.

Mrs. Nokes was in her office just off the common sitting area. Harry stuck his head through the doorway. "May I bother you for a moment?" he asked. "I had a couple of questions."

"Certainly," Mrs. Nokes replied. "Come right in. How can I help?"

Harry entered the office, Hermione right behind him. "It was about part of the farewell feast memory…" he said. "You see, I was wondering if Voldemort is gone…"

No sooner had the word 'gone' left Harry's lips than Mrs. Nokes seemed to go into a trancelike state. She rose from her chair and glided out of the office, looking neither to right nor left, Harry and Hermione right behind her. Her destination was the staircase, which had a small cupboard door set into it very like Harry's old cupboard door in the Dursley's house. Fishing in a pocket, Mrs. Nokes drew out a set of keys and opened the cupboard door, revealing not a cupboard but another flight of stairs leading downward.

_No wonder she limited magic in the house,_ Snape's voice spoke in Harry's mind. _If you're hiding something that valuable and that potentially dangerous, you don't want a lot of stray magic floating around._

The little procession filed down the stairs into a small cellar area. There Mrs. Nokes crossed to a small door in the opposite wall, rather like a safe deposit box and, taking another key, opened it.

_"Petrificus totalis!_" Hermione cried, her wand pointed at the landlady's back.

Mrs. Nokes went rigid as Harry and Hermione rushed forward. In the niche that had just been opened, its egg-shaped body and carved head green with the soft patina of old bronze, was the Etruscan funerary urn.

Hermione grabbed the urn. "Hogwarts," she told Harry, and ran up the stairs with her prize. It didn't matter that Mrs. Nokes had heard her. Harry could keep Mrs. Nokes immobilized until long after Hermione had taken the urn to McGonagall in the headmistress's office.

He let fifteen minutes go by, and then Harry flicked his wand and said, _"Libera corpus!"_

Mrs. Nokes shook herself and stared around at the cellar room. "What am I doing here?" she asked, bewildered. "There's something I have to open."

"Not anymore," said Harry. "It's gone. I think we should go upstairs where you can sit down. I've got something to tell you." He helped Mrs. Nokes, who was a little unsteady, make her way up the stairs. When she was again sitting at her desk in her office, he said, "It's about Tom Riddle."

"I remember," said Mrs. Nokes. "He wanted to be called Lord Voldemort. Strange name. 'Flies from Death.' I thought it was silly back at Hogwarts. Then I seem to have forgotten about it."

"Do you remember the thing he asked you to keep for him?"

"Yes. Odd little thing. Like an egg with a head on it."

"If you ever saw that thing, what would you do with it?"

Mrs. Nokes gave Harry a funny look. "Open it, naturally. That's what it's for."

Harry tried again. "Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort."

"Don't say that name, Mr. Potter. A horrible name for a horrible person. Thank goodness he's gone." Mrs. Nokes shuddered.

"But you understand that he was Tom Riddle, and he was the one who left you the funny urn."

"Of course. An evil man – a wicked man."

"If you were holding that thing right now, what would you do?"

"Open it, naturally. That's what it's for."

Harry sighed and took his leave, thankful that Hermione had gotten away safely with the urn. He went upstairs to remove Snape from his head, and then to come back down with his briefcase and apparate to Hogwarts. Hermione was waiting with the urn in McGonagall's office, and she was not alone. McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Hagrid were there, too. And Dumbledore as well, watching from his portrait.

Taking out pensieve and flask, Harry unstoppered the emerald coffin and allowed the memory strand to flow out and down until Snape stood before them in the pensieve. He watched the faces of the others, and noted how McGonagall and Flitwick exchanged glances, and Dumbledore looked grim.

"Do we have it?" Snape asked as soon as he materialized. "Did she make it here safely?"

"It's here," said Hermione.

"I think Ginny should be here, too," Harry added.

"Why?" Snape demanded. "What's she got to do with it?"

"If you remember, Severus," Dumbledore reminded him, "it was Miss Weasley who was most intimately affected by the diary, which is the artifact most closely related to this urn that we have yet found. She may have valuable insights."

Snape conceded the point, and they waited in nervous silence while McGonagall sent for Ginny from the Gryffindor common room. "What's that?" she asked on entering the office and spying the urn.

"We think," said Harry, "that it's like the diary. It probably contains essence of Voldemort waiting to be reconstituted."

"I don't want to be here when it is," said Ginny. "May I go now?"

"Miss Weasley," said the portrait of Dumbledore, "we feel we have need of your experience. We do not know what is likely to emerge from this urn when we open it. We wish to be prepared so that it is at the very least contained and, if necessary, destroyed."

Ginny looked around at the group, then shrugged. "All I did was write to him. In the diary, I mean. He was really nice. And then he started asking me to do things for him, and it was like I didn't have any will to say no. I'd wake up with cuts and find out things had been written on the walls in blood. Or the roosters. Killing the roosters. I found the feathers, but I didn't know I was doing it when it happened."

"I wrote to him in the diary and was fooled, too," said Harry. "I even believed for a while that Hagrid had opened the Chamber of Secrets. But whatever's in this jar hasn't been in contact with anyone. It doesn't know what happened to Voldemort or to the diary. It doesn't know who its friends or enemies are." He looked around at the others. "Maybe we could trick it into trusting us. Do you think it would help if we brought Mrs. Nokes here to open it for us? That's what it's expecting, after all. It's expecting her to open it."

McGonagall went back to Avery Place with Harry. She was pleased that she'd been remembered, and thought her presence might help keep the situation stable. Mrs. Nokes was still in her office, looking a bit dazed, when they entered.

"As I live and breathe," McGonagall cried on spotting the landlady, "Elvira Prendergast! Now why hadn't I remembered you'd gotten married? Harry's gone on and on about you. You have a bit of a fan club here." She patted Harry's shoulder.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Nokes. "There was something I was supposed to do… something I have to open… McGregor? Minerva McGregor?" She lifted the monocle to her eye.

"And still wearing that, I see. You and Amelia Bones." McGonagall turned to Harry with the air of confiding a secret to him. "If it hadn't been for their being in two such widely separate houses, you'd have thought they were twins sometimes. Pity about Amelia."

"Have you come visiting Mr. Potter, too, Minerva? He gets so many visitors lately. I really am supposed to open it, you know." She looked around in momentary confusion, then focused again on McGonagall and Harry. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Don't fret about it. Truth be told, we've come for you. Would you be interested in seeing Hogwarts again? We're having a wee bit of a reunion, and as young Harry here knew where to find you… It'd not be more than half an hour or so."

"I really don't know," murmured Mrs. Nokes, glancing from side to side.

"Ye could open it there, ye know."

"I could?"

"Aye. It's there waiting for ye. Slughorn was all for doing it himself, but young Harry said he thought it was supposed to be you. It's but a hop, a skip, and a spin."

Mrs. Nokes agreed, and the three apparated to Hogsmeade, Harry first, then Mrs. Nokes, with McGonagall last to see the other woman got safely off. Not long afterwards, they were all in McGonagall's office. The urn stood in full view on her desk, not prominently in the center, but casually on one side. Mrs. Nokes went straight toward it. Every other wizard and witch in the room quietly drew his or her wand.

Apparently oblivious to the attention she was drawing, Mrs. Nokes crossed the office to the desk and very matter-of-factly lifted the little head-shaped lid from the bronze egg-shaped body.

Nothing happened.

"There," Mrs. Nokes sighed, breathing contentedly. "It's done… My goodness, are you that Gryffindor student who was expelled in his third year over…" She blushed. "The unpleasantness, you know. Oh dear, do forgive me."

Hagrid chuckled. "'T ain't no matter ma'am. Water under the bridge."

As nothing continued to happen, Mrs. Nokes remade the acquaintance of her former Charms professor and her former Transfiguration professor, Flitwick and Dumbledore respectively ("I was quite broken hearted when I read the news, sir. It really hadn't occurred to me about the portraits.") 'Excuses' were made for Professor Slughorn ("Something urgent at the Ministry. You know old Sluggy. Can't pass up a chance to influence people."), and then drinks and hors d'oeuvres were handed around. After forty-five minutes of polite conversation, Mrs. Nokes was taking her leave, and Hagrid was offering to show her around on the way out. The others, too, affected leave taking, but as soon as Mrs. Nokes had descended the first staircase, they were back in the office staring apprehensively at the urn.

Ginny had rejoined them. "Where is he?" she asked, and was filled in on the most recent events by Harry. Without anyone trying to stop her, she walked over to the desk, took up the urn, and turned it upside down. A fine, kind of pinkish-beige powder drifted out. In volume, it was about two tablespoons. "Is that all there is?" Ginny asked.

There was a tiny, explosive 'pop' from a side table as the stopper of the emerald coffin shot a couple of inches into the air and landed on the carpet. Silver mist seeped out, and Snape stood in the pensieve. "It would appear so," he answered as if his mode of arrival were perfectly normal. "It seems there is nothing magically special about Etruscan funerary urns."

"I can't see as there's anything magically special about a diary from Vauxhall Road either," Harry pointed out as the others nodded. "But he was preserved in that."

"Which might be an argument for its having been a horcrux as well as a personality container after all," Snape replied.

"On the other hand," Dumbledore added, "the difference might be that the creator of the spell is now dead. No spell creator – no spell."

Harry was not about to let the chance of challenging Dumbledore slip away. "Lots of spells outlive their creators," he said. "Look at Hogwarts. Besides, wasn't this meant to be a backup in case he died? It wouldn't do any good if it stopped working because he died. Sort of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"

"The clue," said Snape, butting in, "is probably in the powder. Whether it's a spell gone wrong or one yet to happen could probably be discovered by analyzing the powder."

"An excellent idea, Professor!" exclaimed Dumbledore. "So practical. I trust we can leave the task in your capable hands."

"Are you trying to be insulting… sir?"

"Insulting? My, no. Just a touch snide, I suppose. It rather goes with being a portrait. I was seized by the tiniest suspicion that you thought you were still able to handle… I beg your pardon." Dumbledore looked around the room. "Who would you want to be your hands in this? I presume you will direct the operation. I have always considered Miss Granger to be a quite accomplished potions brewer."

"Too tradition-bound," said Snape, to Hermione's obvious surprise. "There's not much powder, and we can't afford to waste any in dead-end experiments. I need someone who's sharp, has a natural talent for mixing things together, and isn't afraid to think outside the box."

"You're in a bottle," McGonagall pointed out, "not a box."

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor," retorted Snape.

"May I then suggest Anthony Goldstein or…" Dumbledore stopped as the miniature Snape began stomping around the surface of the pensieve in silent but compelling frustration.

"Have I," Snape spluttered after he had their attention, "or have I not been teaching every single one of these nincompoops for the last seventeen years? At least do me the courtesy of assuming I may know one or two things about their talents at potions! A student can be gifted and still fail an OWL! OWLs are for plodding Hufflepuffs anyway. Memorization is not equivalent to intelligence."

"Do you have any suggestions?" Dumbledore asked mildly, affecting not to notice that Hermione had gone into a corner of the room to sit with a pout on her face.

"Of course I do," Snape snapped back at him. "George Weasley and Luna Lovegood."

"Are you sure that's wise?" McGonagall and Flitwick asked simultaneously, then spent the next minute and a half motioning each other to continue. McGonagall at last proceeded. "I mean, I love George dearly, and Luna can be very entertaining, but aren't they both just a bit, well, strange?"

"Exactly," said Snape. "Outside the box. I'd prefer Fred and George together, but that wasn't to be. The two of them were mixing and experimenting on unusual potions from their third year. They made draughts, lozenges, sprays, powders, capsules, and candies that no one's ever made before, and they were good enough at it to start a successful business. Which means they never killed anyone, so they must have been careful. Lovegood never tackles anything straight on, so her point of view is invaluable. Give me those two and a free hand, and we'll have this analyzed in no time."

McGonagall hemmed, Flitwick hawed, Sprout clucked, and Hagrid (who had now returned from his escort duties) glowed with pride. Dumbledore decided, and the field was Snape's. Harry was sent to Diagon Alley to fetch George Weasley, while Ginny went out to get Luna.

"You want me to work with old Snape?" George exclaimed incredulously when Harry told him the news.

"He asked for you. He practically insisted on you."

"Really? Did he say why?"

"He said you had experience and you think outside the box. He said he'd prefer you and Fred together, but since he couldn't have that, he'd like you."

"You can't go," said Ron. "We just got the Valentine's Day stuff in and you have to be here to manage the crowd. Besides, when have you ever known old Snape to care what you were doing?"

"Look, little brother," said George, "Fred and I were the best that ever went through that Potions class. I knew it, and Fred knew it. OWLs didn't matter. Brewing the potion you wanted mattered. We never thought old Snape ever even noticed; he was always so stiff and strict. He was brilliant, mind you. A waste of an incredible talent we thought, brilliant but rule-bound. Now it looks like he saw what we saw – saw it and recognized it. You think I'm going to pass this up? You've told me about the Prince. This is the Prince, and I get to work with him. Pass it up? In your dreams!"

Harry and George apparated back to Hogwarts where Luna was already in the headmistress's office. They walked in to a monologue delivered by a vaporous midget in a bowl.

"I cannot, of course," Snape was dictating from his pensieve, "work in the Potions classroom or office. They are far too accessible to students and to staff not in on the secret. A sixth-floor room would be nice, one with a view of the lake. I've always liked views of the lake. And the equipment must be top-notch. Raid Slughorn's supplies if you have to, but get us the very best…"

Step one was surgical masks and the careful transfer of the beige powder to a sterile dish, then the move down to the sixth floor south. George carried the pensieve, and as soon as they were lodged in the makeshift laboratory, Snape left the bottle. George selected a solid table that he moved near a bookcase, so that Snape could be placed where he could look down onto the surface of any mixture in cauldron, retort, or flask.

Since it was by now lunch time, food was sent up to the little group, which consisted of Snape, George, Luna, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. The young people tucked into the meal with a will, and George absentmindedly broke off a small bit of his sandwich to give to Snape, which Snape took and nibbled on with equal lack of concern. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Is there anything else you need?" Harry asked. He and Hermione were the gophers, a term they'd not been aware of until Snape explained that it was someone delegated to 'go for' this and 'go for' that. George loved it.

"Crushed polar bear tooth," Luna sighed in reply as she gazed at the powder in the glass dish through her mask.

"Polar bears?" said Ginny. "They pull teeth from polar bears?"

"Baby teeth," Snape explained. "They fall out naturally, but are very hard to find as most of them are swallowed by the young bears. And then being white against a generally pale background… Granger would you open the windows? If we're brewing with polar bear teeth, the temperature can't rise above 40° Fahrenheit. We're very lucky it's January."

"Wait," protested Hermione even as she followed the order, "why polar bear teeth? It's a medical powder for separating living tissue from dead tissue. I don't think you have any living tissue there. It's all a kind of ash."

"Miss Lovegood?" Snape offered Luna first response.

"Manhu." Luna stated. "Ambrosia of the Gods, secreted by certain plant lice in the Middle East. It dries to a sticky powder, organic but not dead. Or it could be Horklump spore – dusty in appearance, but also organic and not dead. Then again, it might be only Doxy dandruff. Still, we have to try." She nudged the dish experimentally. "It is amazing, after all, how wide the category 'alive' is, and how narrow the category 'dead' is."

"There, you see?" Snape challenged. "Vital or defunct? Capable of regeneration, moribund, or totally lifeless? The good thing about the polar tooth test is it doesn't destroy any of the sample. More like a magnet. See if Slughorn still has any. I used to keep a small vial in the office."

Harry rushed off to do as he was bid, but went up first rather than down. In McGonagall's office he faced both her and the portrait of Dumbledore. "He's eating real food," Harry told them without preamble.

"Are you sure?" Dumbledore asked, and McGonagall looked worried.

"Certain. We were just there in the room, and George handed him a bit of egg salad sandwich, and he ate it. He was on top of the pensieve, not inside a memory."

"This is beginning to get very serious," said Dumbledore. "Still, it might be harmless in the long run. We have, unfortunately, no precedent to guide us. Do come at once if there is any indication that he is growing."

Harry nodded and rushed down the stairs for the Potions office. Snape had given him the codes, Slughorn was in the Hall having lunch, and Harry made it back to the sixth floor with the crushed polar bear tooth. He walked in on a heartbreakingly familiar exchange.

"…I'll just add about two…"

"…tablespoons. That should do it. Then six times…"

"…anticlockwise. And three…"

"…clockwise. Should turn a powder…"

"…pink right about now."

"Quick! Add the…"

"…newt's eyes, already on it, and three…"

"…clockwise and done. That ought to turn Flitwick's…"

"…eyebrows blue. How do we get him to…"

"…take it? In his morning mango juice, of course."

"Wicked."

Ginny was sitting quietly in a corner of the room, her eyes closed, listening. Tears traced their way down her cheeks, but Harry was perceptive enough to tell that it wasn't all about sorrow and loss. He studied the two pranksters for a couple of minutes, the stocky redhead and the dark-haired mannikin. It dawned on him suddenly and powerfully that this was not Snape talking to George.

It was Severus.

Harry sidled over to Hermione. "Is he getting younger?" he whispered. "I know it sounds like a silly question, but he's so small, it's hard to tell."

"It's like in Gulliver's Travels," Hermione whispered back. "Gulliver thought the Lilliputians were all very youthful and handsome because they were so small he couldn't see any imperfections in their skin or features. The Brobdingnagians thought Gulliver had an exquisite face for the same reason."

"I don't mean that," said Harry. "I mean compared to a week ago in the same pensieve. Is he getting younger?"

Hermione stepped closer to the trio working around the cauldron. She appeared to be examining the mixture, but she was really examining Snape. "I think you're right," she said when she rejoined Harry. "What does it mean?"

"Stronger and younger," said Harry. "I know it has Dumbledore worried. If it's the flask, think what it could do to any residue of Voldemort lodged inside one like it. I'm supposed to pay attention to whether or not he's growing, too. And if he is getting younger, where does it stop? His twenties? His teens? His childhood?"

"A fetus?" countered Hermione. "An embryo? It's possible he could rejuvenate himself into nothing at all, and then there wouldn't be a problem, would there?"

"I don't think I like that idea," Harry retorted, not certain why but nonetheless certain that he didn't want to lose this resurrected Snape. He shivered slightly, and laid it to the fact that the room was quite cold.

"There!" George cried suddenly, causing both Harry and Hermione to jump. Ginny in her corner leapt up and approached the work table.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"Vampire tissue," George croaked in a hoarse, sepulchral voice. "Undead."

"More like the chrysalis of a nascent butterfly," said Luna. "Just waiting for the moment to burst into life again."

"I hope not," said Severus, and his voice had risen a couple of notes as befitted more youthful vocal chords. "He wasn't very pleasant the first time around, if you recall."

"What. Happened?" Hermione demanded, beginning to look frustrated.

"Approximately two-thirds of the ash is still vital organic matter," Severus replied, "which presents us with a new problem. Was the 'dead' matter originally 'alive?' Which is to say, has one-third of the Dark Lord already disappeared, making it impossible for him to fully return? Or was the one-third 'dead' from the beginning, in the form of clothing or a wristwatch? I would suggest experimenting on the 'dead' part first. If it's mineral or thread fibers, we're dealing with a whole organism rather than a partial one."

George was already setting up the experiment. "I wish we knew what spell he used to get this," he said.

"We had a few books with information about horcruxes," Hermione advised him. "They were in the Hogwarts Library until Professor Dumbledore checked them out."

"When?" Severus asked abruptly.

"Right after his funeral I cast an Accio spell and…"

"No, when did Dumbledore check them out? They weren't there in the seventies. Well… there was one, but it gave more of a definition than anything, and no details on how to make or destroy one."

"They were probably in the Restricted Section," said Hermione.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "And that would have stopped me… how?" he asked sarcastically.

"Wait," Harry intervened. "Dumbledore saw Voldemort shortly after he became headmaster. He showed me the memory. Voldemort was interested in the Dark Arts job – at least that's what he said."

"And…"

"Well, he already looked strange, halfway to what he was going to become. Maybe Dumbledore realized then what he was doing, and that's when he took the books out of the Library. Would that have been before you were sorted?"

"Probably," said Severus, now somewhat mollified. "Where do you happen to have these books stashed."

"I don't think it's a good idea for people to be looking at them," said Hermione, her arms folded across her chest.

"Fine!" Severus snapped at her. "We'll let you open the flask when we find it, and you can deal with whatever's inside!"

When put like that, Hermione was able to see more than one side of the question. She apparated home and returned with the books on horcruxes that she'd kept hidden for nearly a year, pointing out the pages in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ where it talked about destroying horcruxes. Ginny held the book up and turned the pages while less-than-page-high Severus pored over them like a long-lost lover. After several minutes, though, he went on to other sections of the book.

"You're sure it's not a horcrux?" Hermione asked.

"Now?" replied Severus. "Absolutely certain. And since there's no trace of it's ever having been destroyed by a basilisk tooth, or Fiendfyre, or any of the other delightful methods mentioned here, I don't believe it ever was a horcrux. There's more than horcruxes in this book, however."

Luna was bent over the powder. "They're very beautiful, you know," she told the air in general as George made faces behind her back. "These iridescent bright blue veins radiate from their bodies into their wings, but the wings are pale magenta – well that's just on top of course, underneath they're beige. And the spots. It's sort of like looking into a nebula. I'd call them nebulae instead of rhetenor. I mean, rhetenors are nasty spiders – of course they're black and pink – but the morphos are some of the most beautiful…"

"Are you sure it's a butterfly?" Severus asked, looking away from the book.

"Oh, yes," sighed Luna. "It would have to be a necrochrysalid, though, and until we find its phylactery…"

George stopped making faces and moved to Luna's side. "They aren't real, are they?" he whispered, staring down at the powder. "Liches, I mean. How could you have a lich butterfly?"

"Did it ever occur to you," Severus said, rolling his eyes upwards, "that a horcrux is nothing more nor less than a lich's phylactery? You store a bit of the soul in it, and it keeps the lich from dying, then has the power to reanimate the corpse. That's assuming you have the corpse to…" He stopped as Luna turned to stare at him and then at George.

"Muggles made a sheep from another sheep," Luna said. "I suppose Voldemort could make himself from a butterfly."

"What's she talking about?" Harry asked.

"Cloning," said Hermione.

"What did they do with the Dark Lord's body?" Severus demanded of Harry.

"Cremated it."

"Drat. That eliminates DNA testing. We're going to have to keep this very safe until we're one hundred percent certain that there isn't another horcrux."

"I still don't understand," Harry admitted. "You said this powder isn't a horcrux."

"It isn't," Hermione explained. "It doesn't hold the soul. It holds the body. For Voldemort to return, you need a body and a soul. Or at least a fragment of the soul and a fragment of the body. The horcruxes held the soul fragments. This urn holds the tissue that can be reanimated by the soul fragment. Then the two parts could be reunited, and they could grow into a new Voldemort."

Harry looked around. "Do you think he had another one of these somewhere, and that's where he got that strange little body that Wormtail carried around?"

"Very likely," said Severus. "Hermione, I'm going into that memory for a moment. Would you bring the books into the study there so that I can examine them at more leisure? The spells he used to create this may very well be in them, and they can give us clues about the soulstone coffin as well."

Hermione did as she was asked, then returned to the classroom laboratory, and Severus to the surface of the pensieve.

"Well," Severus announced to the group around him. "I think we can go upstairs and make our report."

"Aren't you going to test it?" Hermione asked.

"Why?" Severus asked. "We're dealing with a type of necrochrysalid. The powder in the urn is the body fragment that the soul fragment in a horcrux is meant to reanimate."

"But you didn't test it!"

Severus sighed and became Snape again. "Miss Granger, while I grant your technical proficiency, surely you must by now have noticed that the power of a potion or spell depends not on measuring or flicking, but on the innate power of wizard or witch making the potion or casting the spell. I do not agree with Sibyll Trelawney on everything, but girl, you don't have the soul for this kind of work. Miss Lovegood is the most intuitive witch I have ever met. If she has to pass through South American butterflies to get to the knowledge that the Dark Lord cloned himself… I'm not about to argue with her."

"Why didn't you tell us how important intuition is?" Hermione challenged him. "It might have helped."

"Because professors are evaluated by the percentage of students who pass their OWLs. Intuition – and good potion making – have nothing to do with OWLs."

Dumbledore, watching from his portrait, was more intrigued by the whole cloning idea. "It is a touch anachronistic, though, is it not?" he queried Snape.

"You mean because in the 1950s he could have had no knowledge of DNA? Just because the terminology wasn't there doesn't mean the act couldn't be performed. Of course, without a viable horcrux, we have no way of knowing if this would have been successful. For all we know, the spell failed. For all we know, it wouldn't work anyway."

"Something," Dumbledore pointed out, "that it would be unwise to test."

Harry spoke up then. "We thought the urn and the powder ought to be kept well guarded in a safe place, just in case there was another horcrux. We don't want to take the chance of their coming together."

Dumbledore's portrait shrugged. "Suit yourselves," he said. "I personally consider that action both too cautious and too risky."

George looked up from one of Dumbledore's many gadgets. "You'll have to explain that, sir."

"Are you," Dumbledore asked, "planning to join the body tissue to the horcrux should you ever find a horcrux?"

"Of course not!" several people exclaimed at once. "That would be foolhardy," said Hermione.

"Not to mention stupid," Harry added.

"Then why not destroy the body tissue? Then if you find a horcrux – which I personally do not believe you will – there will be no tissue to reanimate. Problem solved."

Snape, standing in his pensieve on the desk, raised his hand, and such was the degree to which everyone was used to his small presence, it was noticed at once. "Yes, Severus?" said Dumbledore.

"Do you know the best way to dispose of something like this? Do we burn it? Do we bury it? Do we scatter it like birdseed and let the pigeons do something useful for once?"

Behind Snape, George began fizzing with suppressed laughter. After a few seconds, Harry found himself snorting and chuckling, too. It was somehow calming to hear Snape speak with such cavalier disrespect of the person he'd once called 'Lord.'

"I was thinking more of fish," said Dumbledore with a slight frown. "Is it not relatively common to scatter ashes at sea?"

"But Professor," interjected Hermione, "how could we be certain that even scattered like that, the fragments couldn't come together, or that even one grain couldn't be reanimated?"

"That is relatively simple, Miss Granger. Clearly in order to resurrect a body, a certain minimum amount of physical matter is required. Otherwise, Voldemort might have been contented to produce a smaller amount of powdered tissue."

"Critical mass," said Snape. "Any amount below it, and the reaction doesn't take place. Are you sure, sir, that the principles of nuclear fission apply in this case?"

"No," replied Dumbledore with a winsome smile, "but I am certain beyond a reasonable doubt that there are no more horcruxes, and equally certain that the scattered parts will never come together again, not if you take advantage of the breadth of the oceans, the flow of their currents, and the voraciousness of life in the sea."

The little group exchanged glances. "It'll be dark soon," Hermione pointed out. "We could do it tomorrow, though. We'll be better rested then, too. It's been a long day."

"How do we do it?" George asked. "Brooms are probably best."

"Not everyone is comfortable on a broom," Hermione reminded him.

"Not everyone needs to come," was George's response. "You don't need a crew of people to dump ashes."

"We can go like we did before," Luna said. "On thestrals."

George's eyes glowed. "Super idea!" he agreed.

"I don't know," said Ginny. "I'm not wild about riding something that's invisible. Once was enough."

"Don't be silly," Luna told her with a sweet smile. "You can all see thestrals now. It'll be fun."

On that somber note, they all went back to their respective homes and dormitories. The urn with its sinister powder remained in McGonagall's office. Harry apparated back to London with Snape in time for Saturday dinner. Harry was interested in seeing Mrs. Nokes again, and debated within himself on whether or not to take Snape. Picking up the pensieve, he absentmindedly began to brush the crumbs out of it.

In the very act of tipping the pensieve over a wastebasket, Harry paused. _Why are there crumbs in this thing?_ He brought it closer to examine. As near as he could tell, the crumbs were tiny fragments of egg salad sandwich. Harry manfully stifled a snort of laughter, knowing that Snape would be able to hear, and took pensieve and crumbs into his bedroom to examine them under the lamp.

The crumbs were in no way altered from the original sandwich except that they had been cut very small.

_He can't eat it,_ Harry thought. _He can't eat it because he doesn't have a body. He's just a... what is he? An illusion? A spirit? The manifestation of a soul?_ He was pleased that Hermione wasn't there. This was something he wanted to think about on his own.

_If we aren't really part of the memory in a pensieve, how is it that we can sit on benches and chairs? I sat on a bench in the very first memory I entered, before I knew what it was. I can see how Snape can perform magic outside the memories because magic is mental, not physical, but how could his teeth bite the bits of sandwich into smaller fragments.?_

Everything that went into the pensieve from the physical world seemed to separate into two beings. The physical part remained outside, suspended in a sort of trance._ Can non-sentient things be in a trance? _The vital, thinking, feeling part went inside, but had no physical support._ If what goes into the pensieve is a living being, the connection between the body and the will remains as long as the connection to the pensieve remains. But if someone killed the inert body outside the pensieve, would the 'spirit' in the pensieve remain active, like Snape is now, or would it die, too?_

Inanimate things lost something. The part of the food that Harry took into the pensieve could not nourish a physical body, but then Snape didn't have a physical body that needed nourishment, so it didn't matter. The part outside, separated from its essence, lost the ability to nourish or even to stimulate taste. _What if I carried food in, then carried it back out? Would the food have altered? What if I carried it in one pocket, then switched the pensieve food to another pocket before I exited? Would the two parts of the food be able to find each other? What if I carried the food in and handed it to, say, Ron, before we left the pensieve? What would happen to the food then?_ Without analyzing what he was doing, Harry began to devise a series of experiments to test his half-formed hypothesis.

Mrs. Purdy called from below that supper was ready, and Harry headed for the stairs. He stopped partway down, however, and went back for the flask and pensieve. The others might ask to see Snape again, and Snape might want to talk to them.

"I've been meaning to ask," said Mrs. Nokes, coming out of her office just as Harry reached the foot of the stairs, "does your sprite have a name? I'd like to address him as, you know, as a sort of tenant here like everyone else, but 'Sprite' hardly seems appropriate."

"Maybe you should ask him yourself what he prefers, ma'am," Harry replied. "He can be rather particular about things."

Snape, in fact, joined them for supper, at which point Mrs. Nokes put the question to him. "I should like you to enlighten me as to how you would prefer to be addressed," she said. "It feels so awkward to say 'Sprite,' or to say nothing at all."

"It's gracious of you to consider my feelings, Mrs. Nokes," responded Snape, who'd had several minutes to think of an answer. "My name is Sevris. We do not have last names."

"There," said Mrs. Nokes, "that makes everything so much easier."

During the entire meal, Mrs. Nokes made no reference to the events of the morning. It was as if her trip to Hogwarts had not occurred, much less her revealing of the location of the urn. On the most basic level, the whole affair seemed to have been wiped from her memory. Neither Harry nor Snape pressed her for information.

After a while, Snape did get involved in a rather technical discussion with Mr. Upton over the likelihood of inventing a practical perpetual motion machine. Mr. Upton insisted it was possible, while Snape countered with arguments about thermodynamics, friction, entropy, and conservation of energy, all of which Mr. Upton pooh-poohed. Snape was becoming frustrated by Upton's inability to see that two plus two could not equal five, so the instant Mr. Upton advanced the argument of 'Muggle Mythology,' Harry had to intervene to prevent bloodshed. Not that there would have been much blood shed given Snape's 'reduced' ability to assert his point of view.

"I do believe," Harry told the assembled company, scooping up both emerald coffin and pensieve, "that it's our bedtime. Please excuse us. We need an early start tomorrow."

Mrs. Nokes looked relieved. Upton looked smug. Deirdre and Arwella looked disappointed since they'd been hoping for a fight. Most of the others hadn't understood the argument anyway, and were neutral. Snape fumed all the way up the stairs.

"Take me back there!" he insisted. "You can't yield the ground to that nincompoop like that! He has no comprehension of physics at all! I swear, Potter, that if I ever have a chance to turn your nose into a casaba melon, I'm going to do it! Just see if your Weasley girlfriend can kiss you around that!"

"Pleasant dreams," said Harry as he placed Snape's gray, misty strand back into the soulstone coffin. "I'm taking the pensieve into the bedroom. I'd suggest you stay put and cool off because we have a lot to do tomorrow. Remember, we're dumping Voldemort out to sea. That's got to be better than winning an argument with a fool."

xxxxxxxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

_Sunday, January 24, 1999_

The next morning there was a whole new argument.

"I can't take you," Harry said for the seventh time as he pulled on his socks and shoes. "Not in the pensieve, and not in my head. I won't be able to hold onto the pensieve and the thestral at the same time, and I can't risk having you decide you want to take over my hands and my mouth when we're a couple of hundred feet above open ocean. You're going to have to live with it; you can't go."

"Live with it!" Snape yelled back at him, trembling with impotent rage. Harry would have been worried about his blood pressure if Snape had had any blood pressure to be worried about. "Live with it! I lived with it for nearly twenty-six years, and then I died for it! My life was destroyed by that villain, and I didn't even get the satisfaction of watching him die because I was too busy making sure you could be the hero! You owe me this!"

"You destroyed the memory of him."

"Big deal! Face it, wonder boy, you care what happens to me only so long as I'm useful to you. Well I have news for you. I'm a person! I have feelings!"

"Don't be silly," Harry said, trying not to grin. "If I really didn't care about your feelings, I'd have walked out of here a half hour ago and left you stewing in that bowl."

"And I'd have trashed your apartment while you were gone! So there!" Snape stood rigid with rage, his arms straight at his sides, hands twitching into miniscule fists. He looked like he wanted to punch Harry.

"Thanks for the warning," Harry responded. "Maybe I should put you on the roof with the magpies and the pigeons."

A voice called up stairs – George's voice. "Harry, are you up there? Everyone else is at Hogwarts waiting for you!" A moment later the door opened and George strode in. "Come on, you two. We can't wait all day."

Snape jumped on his words at once. "You see! Even a Weasley can see I should go with you!"

"Oh ho!" George cried, laughing. "Are you planning on locking our pee-wee potions master in your room for the duration? I wouldn't if I were you. Merlin knows what you'd walk in on when you got back."

"I've been trying to explain that to thick-wit here," said Snape. "All my redecorating instincts are coming foreword."

"I can't," Harry explained somewhat sheepishly. "I need both hands to hang onto the thestral, and I don't want him in my brain where he could interfere with my actions if something happens."

"I've got an idea. Why don't we encase him and the pensieve in a bubble that could float next to the thestral?" George smiled at the simplicity of his suggestion.

"I don't know," said Snape. "The thought makes me uncomfortable." He wrinkled his brow. "For some reason it reminds me of snakes."

"Ix-nay on the ubble-bay," Harry hissed at George. "I'll explain later."

"We just have to think of something else," said George. "We can't leave him behind. This is his moment more than any of us."

"See!" Snape crowed. "See! Just because you're a cold-hearted, insensitive lout doesn't mean that the rest of the world is equally callous. I always said the Weasleys were one of the finest wizarding families…"

George's eyebrows shot upward. "When might that have been?" he asked.

"Never mind. Just come up with an idea."

"Well frankly, I don't want you in my head either. We could carry the bottle and the pensieve in a pouch, but getting you out while we're flying wouldn't be easy. Can you go into a portrait? We're taking a little one of Dumbledore so he can watch. If you could get into…"

"Dumbledore's going!" Snape was nearing meltdown. "He's going and you were going to leave me here?"

"Look," said George to Harry, "we can at least take him to Hogwarts. Maybe one of the others will come up with an idea of how to take him along. I agree he should go if we can figure out how. And a dozen heads are better than one any day."

"A dozen?" Snape's voice was ominously calm as he faced Harry. "You knew?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "Sort of."

"You, Potter, are a turd. And I am so going to renovate this apartment. No, wait. That wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Nokes. Maybe I'll just renovate you, Potter. Starting with your nose and…"

Harry quickly put Snape into his flask, and he and George hurried down to the little area yard to apparate to Hogwarts.

In McGonagall's office at Hogwarts, it was the immediate consensus that Snape should go with them if a practical way could be found. "Do you think you might be able to travel as a portrait, Severus dear?" was McGonagall's contribution to the discussion.

"Severus dear?" Ron mouthed to Harry, who grimaced.

"I don't know," Snape replied, but he'd clearly seen the Ron-Harry exchange and eyed them with malice. "I still want someone to tell me why my portrait isn't up there. It isn't fair."

"The Board of Governors..." McGonagall began, but Snape was quicker.

"How soon after you went sailing off the tower did your portrait get hung on the wall," he demanded of Dumbledore.

"Almost immediately. That very night."

"Who put it up?"

"No one. The castle simply does it." Dumbledore was frowning in thought.

"Before the Board of Governors was even notified of your death," Snape huffed. "The castle did it. Well, why not me? I was working for the welfare of the school as much as anyone, and under far more difficult and dangerous circumstances. How come I don't have a portrait?"

McGonagall looked embarrassed. "We did think it was because of the manner of your leaving, but since we realized that our… perception of that event was in… error… Well, I really don't know why you're not up there with the others."

"It is possible," said Dumbledore, "that the castle does not perceive you as dead. It may think that you are still alive. After all, that part of your personality which would have gone into a portrait was not available, it having been locked in a flask."

"Even so," insisted Snape, "once Minerva was appointed, I was an ex-headmaster. Don't headmasters who resign get portraits?"

"I fear," said Dumbledore, "that over the centuries the headmasters of Hogwarts have had a distressing habit of dying in harness."

"Me included. Which doesn't bode well for you, Minerva dear." McGonagall glowered. Snape smirked back at her and continued. "I suppose all things considered, I'd rather be mobile in a memory jar than stuck on a wall. I'm game to try a portrait experiment, though."

McGonagall got a small portrait frame, which Harry took into the pensieve memory. He and Snape tried a variety of different handoffs, from Harry merely exiting with the frame again to Snape carrying the frame in his pocket as he entered the pensieve. None worked.

"Perhaps," said Dumbledore, "it is impossible for him to leave the soulstone and the pensieve."

"That's not true," Harry told him. "Professor Snape destroyed a memory from inside, and when it was breaking apart, I apparated out with him. He was loose in the room for several seconds."

"Really? Side-along apparation? Harry, there's a little diptych portrait of me in the desk. Would you take it into the pensieve?"

Harry got the portrait, checked that Dumbledore was in it, and joined Snape in the office memory. As before, a very real looking Dumbledore stood beside him. Dumbledore crossed over to where Snape stood watching them and put his arm around Snape's shoulders.

"What do you think you're doing?" Snape said.

"Taking you out with me," replied Dumbledore.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Do you not trust me? You were willing to try it solo."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"We will give you a beautiful memorial service. You will love it." Dumbledore backed away a step and peered at Snape over his glasses. "Would you rather stay here while we go out over the North Sea without you?"

"No," Snape answered hurriedly. "We'll try it your way."

Dumbledore once more placed his arm around Snape's shoulders while Harry left the memory. When he was again in McGonagall's office, he took the portrait out of his pocket and opened it. Dumbledore smiled up at him. "Did it work all right?" Harry asked.

"Define all right," said Dumbledore. Behind Dumbledore's back Snape's voice could be clearly heard.

"Move over, will you? It's crowded in here. You know, you might have picked a larger frame!"

Dumbledore edged to one side. "If it is too uncomfortable, you could always choose to stay, you know. It is not absolutely required that you come with us."

"Why don't you move into another picture," retorted Snape. "Why do we have to be together?"

"We shall be leaving the building," Dumbledore explained. "I must be in a frame that contains my portrait. I do not possess a large number of small ones."

"But this has space for two different pictures." Snape pointed to the frame on the other side of the diptych.

"Alas," sighed Dumbledore. "That side never held my portrait. Why do you not move into that one?"

"I don't know how."

"Maybe if we have a portrait of you, you could move into that."

"I don't think there are any portraits of me."

Ginny Weasley suddenly said, "Oh!" and rushed out of the room. While she was gone, Harry tried taking the portrait back into the pensieve so that Dumbledore could attempt to first take Snape into the blank frame of the diptych and then move himself into the portrait. It didn't work.

As the assembled group debated what to do, Ginny returned. She held a shoebox and a Chocolate Frog Famous Wizard Card Carrying Case. "What about these?" she asked Dumbledore. "Didn't you go into a Chocolate Frog Wizard Card to give Luna the idea about stealing Gryffindor's sword?"

"That was my idea," said Snape. "What's in the other box?"

"They're pictures Colin Creevey took. He had this camera in first year, and he was photographing everything. It fascinated him that wizard pictures can move. I was just wondering if he ever took one of Professor Snape."

They passed out the pictures and sorted through them. There were plenty of Gryffindor students among the photos, and some of students of other houses. There were even a few of the different professors, but none…

"There!" cried Luna, holding up a photo of the Great Hall at dinner time. "Over on the left, talking to Professor Lockhart! And Professor Dumbledore's in the center"

Photographs, it turned out, however, were not like portraits. Not only could Snape not move into one, Dumbledore could not either. In the end it was decided that Dumbledore would move into a Famous Wizard card and ride on Flitwick's robes, where the card was held on by a charm. Dumbledore was able see everything from that vantage point. Snape would ride in the diptych.

"He's mine," George declared, pulling a long string from one of his pockets. He tied it around the hinges of the diptych and then made a large loop and hung the open picture around his neck. "That way, we can talk."

"You just be sure you don't drop me in the ocean," Snape warned.

"Isn't that what Accio spells are for?" said George with a grin.

Harry carried the urn with the powder. "To think," he mused, "if we brought this together with a soul fragment in a horcrux, it could resurrect him." He looked at George, or rather at the portrait hanging around George's neck. "If we had some of your DNA, do you think we could resurrect you? You know… hair, nail clippings."

"I'll have you know I was always very tidy," retorted Snape. "Where would you get my DNA?"

"We could exhume the body," Luna suggested, and George supported the idea with the sigh, "Wicked."

"I don't think I like that idea," Snape interrupted, and the subject was dropped.

On the way downstairs, they were joined first by Neville and then, in the entrance hall, by Hermione. Hagrid was there, too, though he wasn't joining them since he was too large to ride a thestral. Harry quietly mentioned to Hermione the possibility of extracting DNA from Snape's corpse.

"I wouldn't," she replied. "There are other things in a coffin besides just the body, and after eight months any sample you take could be contaminated."

The image that brought to Harry's mind was unpleasant, and he dismissed it immediately. He could understand why pensieve Snape might not be enthused.

The party walked down the hill from the castle in the crisp January air and headed into the forest where Hagrid had assembled a small herd of thestrals to take them out over the North Sea.

It was supposed to be a solemn occasion, and in most respects it was. The professors and George had never ridden thestrals before, but with help and advice from the younger members of the group, they soon got the hang of it. It did make a difference that they could all now see the animals, and as the winged steeds rose majestically into the air, Harry felt a thrill of accomplishment. Another chapter in the long saga was about to close.

Northern Scotland spread out below, dull in its winter colors of brown and pine green, with a dusting of snow in the higher places. Their heading was northeast, and so they bypassed Aberdeen, for their goal was deeper water past Kinnairds Head. Dumbledore and Snape had both agreed that a depth of at least one hundred meters was called for, reasoning that although the powder might at first float, it would, if not consumed by fish, eventually settle to the bottom.

One thing that Harry had not counted on was that the thestrals could not get near each other due to the spread of their wingspans, and they could not hover. And though the day was calm, the wind created by their passage made talking almost impossible. Once out of sight of land, the gray of the North Sea swelling below them, Flitwick gestured to Harry that it was time, and he extracted a small portion of the powder from the urn with his wand, directed it away from the thestrals so it wouldn't accidently be caught on their bodies or the clothes of their riders, and then let it fall. There was a ragged cheer from the others, faint and quickly whipped away by the wind as the powder disappeared.

A distance farther, and another pinch of powder was dropped, then another, and another. Over a hundred square miles of ocean they scattered the dust of Lord Voldemort until the urn was empty of even the smallest grain. Harry held the urn over his head to the cheers of the others and then let it, too, fall into the sea. If there was any residual magic in the squat humpty-dumpty figure of the urn, it was now too far away from anyone or anything to do any damage.

The thestrals turned in a wide arc and made their way back to the highlands of Scotland. Since conversation was impossible, Harry used the time to think. The first task was, of course, to talk to Deirdre Dowd and locate the other soulstone coffin. Whether that would turn out to be as easy as the urn had been, or as difficult as fighting Lord Voldemort himself had been, was something that had to be dealt with as the task unfolded. Harry rather hoped it would be easy.

The second task was growing in Harry's mind. Part of him now very much wanted to bring Snape back. If Tom Riddle could be resurrected by the union of DNA with a soul fragment, why couldn't Severus Snape be resurrected in the same way, by a union of DNA with the spirit and memories contained in the emerald flask?

The thestrals touched down in the forest where Hagrid was waiting for them with slabs of raw meat as a reward for their exertions. The people, Hagrid now included, trudged back up the hill to the castle, where they went directly to McGonagall's office for a well-deserved party.

An hour into the merriment, as Neville was dancing with Professor Sprout, George was doing imitations of the entire staff, and Snape was shooting little fireworks from his wand up towards the ceiling, Harry managed to corner McGonagall in a whispered conversation.

"Do you think he's right about being too tidy to have left any personal remains around?" he asked. "After all, the police can find all sorts of things at a crime scene. Hair, fingerprints, particles of skin…"

"You forget, Harry dear, that the cleaning here is done by house-elves. And Severus really was that neat and methodical. I doubt you'll find even the smallest smidgeon."

"What about his home? The things he had there? That wasn't cleaned by house-elves."

McGonagall thought for a moment. "All his books and papers were placed in the library. Madame Pince is sorting them. I don't think you'll find anything there. The personal effects are in storage."

"Where's storage?" Harry asked.

"We have archives and artifact storage on the sixth floor. It'll be in a few boxes there. It was a wee, poor house without many things other than the books. We didna keep the furniture."

"Could I look at it now?"

"Shouldna ye ask his permission?" McGonagall said, nodding toward the pensieve and its bite-sized inhabitant. "They're his things, after all."

"I should," Harry admitted, "but he's a lot more vulnerable than he used to be. Emotionally, I mean. I don't want to get his hopes up."

McGonagall nodded in agreement.

The music hall quartet of Dumbledore, Hagrid, George, and Flitwick had just started singing 'There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover…' so Harry and McGonagall were able to slip out unnoticed. She led him down to a door on the sixth floor that opened into an area filled with furniture, school equipment, and tall racks of shelves loaded with boxes. It was smaller and far more orderly than the room of requirement had been. McGonagall pointed towards the shelves.

"There are ten boxes there," she told Harry. "They're all labeled with his name. Some of them contain clothing, or household goods. There are a few personal papers and books, too, not connected with Hogwarts or magical research. It wasna much for thirty-eight years of life. It shouldna take ye long."

McGonagall was right. From the moment Harry opened the first box, he knew it wasn't going to be a long search. What he found was clothing, but it was muggle clothing, some of it a woman's clothing. _He never threw away his parents' things. Most of this must have belonged to his mum and dad._

The clothing was well-worn, neat and clean, but mended and darned. There was no jewelry, not even a pair of earrings or cufflinks. No suits or neckties, just the plain, sturdy clothes of a working man and the simple dresses of a working-class woman. Other boxes contained mismatched dishes, pots and pans, a couple of cheap knick-knacks. Recalling all the things in the Dursleys' house, Harry felt an odd sadness. He remembered the pensieve memory of the little boy with his few crayons. Harry's own meager childhood seemed suddenly rich. At least he'd eaten off of matching plates and watched the telly in his own home.

Another box held books and… magazines. Old magazines. Strand magazines. For a few moments Harry let himself flip through the pages of the very first Sherlock Holmes stories. He looked at the other books. Ancient muggle school books, murder mysteries, the complete works of Shakespeare – it was a side of Snape he never would have guessed. Overcome by curiosity, Harry dug deeper into the box. Down at the bottom he found something besides books. It was a packet of letters still in their envelopes, tied together with a bit of string.

Feeling very guilty, for this couldn't possibly have anything to do with DNA, Harry untied the string and sifted through the envelopes. Some, in a small, crabbed script, were from Snape's father to Snape's mother. A glance at the contents showed they were written before the two were married, and Harry quickly thrust them back in their envelopes, ashamed at his intrusion into their privacy. Others in a larger, more open hand, were from Eileen Prince to Tobias Snape. They were worn and tattered, and appeared to have been read and reread often. Still others seemed to be from Snape's grandmothers. In the middle of the packet was an envelope without an address. Harry opened it.

Inside was another, smaller envelope, and a slip of paper. The paper held Eileen Snape's sprawling handwriting in the words 'Russ's first haircut.' Harry stared at it for a moment, then opened the small envelope. Inside was a lock of soft, jet black hair. A memento for a loving mother; the possibility of renewed life for her son.

Harry shoved the small envelope and note back into the larger envelope and both into his jacket pocket. The books were returned to their box and the boxes all replaced on the shelf. Filled now with a sense of hope and mission, a jubilant Harry made his way back to the headmistress's office. Only McGonagall witnessed his return; the others were engrossed in an arm-wrestling match between Hermione and Ginny.

"Find anything?" McGonagall asked.

"Maybe," Harry replied, but did not elaborate.

It was another hour before the party broke up. It was approaching dinner time at Hogwarts, so the professors went first to their rooms to freshen up before facing the students. Ginny, Luna, and Neville went to their dorms, probably to go straight to bed, they having already feasted and not being hungry but faced with the need to 'sleep it off.' Ron, Hermione, and George went back to Diagon Alley. Harry returned to Avery Row, but not before pocketing the little portrait of Dumbledore.

Once back in his own rooms, with Snape settled for the night in the flask, Harry went into his bedroom and pulled out the diptych. "Professor Dumbledore, may I talk to you?" he said to the empty frame.

"Certainly, Harry," replied Dumbledore, smiling up suddenly from the frame. "I thought you might want to when I saw you put this in your jacket. Has something happened? You were gone from the office for quite a while."

"Professor McGonagall let me look through Professor Snape's things from his house in Lancashire."

"Oh, dear. He will not be pleased, That is a serious invasion of his…"

"Privacy. Yes, I know. These last few days he's been on such an emotional roller-coaster ride, Professor… I don't want to build him up and then dash his hopes."

"You have found something?"

"His mother kept a lock of his hair from the first time it was cut."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "It does seem odd to think of Severus as being a small child having his hair cut for the first time, does it not? Not so odd to me, of course. I knew him when he was eleven."

"And I've seen him in a memory when he was about five." Harry paused. "Professor, if I used the hair for the DNA to bring him back, would he come back as himself, or as a two-year-old child?"

"That is assuming it would work," Dumbledore pointed out. "It might not. And then there is so much to be taken into account. The DNA is from a very young child, but the soulstone has strengthened an adult spirit. That might have a lot to do with it."

"I read somewhere that if you clone something, it starts out as an embryo, then a fetus, then a newborn. It should produce a baby, right?"

"A baby with the mind and memories of an adult. Do not forget, Harry, that we are not working in the muggle world here. There is also magic involved." Leaving Harry with this thought, Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, and Harry went to bed.

Early the next morning Harry contacted Headmistress McGonagall, who contacted Gawain Robards, who gave Harry permission to be on extended leave as a service to Hogwarts. Harry and Snape went down to breakfast that morning knowing that they were free to work with the Dowd sisters.

Miss Arwella was in the dining room enjoying her bacon and eggs and the morning _Prophet_, but Deirdre was not. Neither was Mrs. Nokes. "She was feeling poorly yesterday," Arwella said of her sister. "It started around midmorning. Then it got worse. She's a bit better today, though, so I doubt it was very serious." She had no information about Mrs. Nokes's condition.

"Do you think it had anything to do with our activities of yesterday?" Harry whispered to Snape as he settled at the far end of the table from Miss Arwella. "Maybe they're more attuned to him than we thought."

"It's possible," said Snape. "Do you think you could spread some of that orange marmalade on a biscuit and take it upstairs? It's been ages since I've had marmalade."

"You could try not thinking of yourself for a while," commented Harry, doing as he was bid.

"There speaks the boy who's polishing off scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, grapefruit, toast, orange juice, tea, and eyeing the waffles," Snape huffed. "The only difference is that you can take what you want, and I have to ask."

"Would you like to be able to get things for yourself?"

Snape cocked his head to one side and peered at Harry through narrowed eyes. "That's a silly question," he said. "Of course I would. Are you hiding something from me?"

"What if you couldn't come back as quite you? What if you had to inhabit another body?"

If it had been possible for Snape's eyes to narrow even more and still allow him to see, they would have. "It depends on the body. I'm not coming back as a springer spaniel, thank you."

"Why not? They're smart. They're cute."

"There's a thought," said Snape acidly. "Which is preferable? Being cute, or self-immolation? I hope you don't have your heart set on cute, because I can always take you with me."

"Define cute," said Harry.

"Babies and monkeys are cute. Baby monkeys are especially cute. You'd better not be thinking of baby monkeys."

"No springer spaniels and no baby monkeys," Harry assured him.

"And…?" Snape prompted.

"That's as far as I promise," Harry told him.

"I will take you with me," Snape said. "As Merlin is my witness, I will take you with me."

"I'm quite prepared for that eventuality," Harry replied.

Back in Harry's rooms after breakfast, Snape got his marmalade on a biscuit. He also got coffee and some of the bacon and eggs. Harry joined him in the pensieve office for a conference.

"Do you think Miss Deirdre will be downstairs for lunch?" Snape asked as he dug into his breakfast with a will.

"Miss Arwella seemed to think she was improving. I rather expect so. The problem is that we don't have Hermione as backup today. If Deirdre tries to open the flask, are we going to be able to stop her?"

"You'd better be ready to, Potter," Snape said, his mouth partly full of bacon. "I can't work spells at that level."

"At least not that we know of," said Harry.

At lunch, everyone remarked on Harry's presence. "You aren't sick, are you?" asked Mrs. Nokes, for both she and Deirdre Dowd were present.

"No, ma'am," Harry replied. "I've been given a special assignment. One that requires outside research. I won't have to go in to the office for a while."

"That's nice," said Sugarman, the estate agent. "I'd like to not have to go into the office for a week or two." Unlike Harry, he apparated back to the boarding house daily for lunch as it saved him having to spend money in restaurants. He was rumored to have hoarded a fortune on lunch alone.

"It is kind of nice," Harry admitted. "I have work to do, but I get to decide when and where to do it."

The when and the where came right after lunch. Miss Arwella went upstairs. Harry approached Miss Deirdre with the statement, "Since Voldemort 'as gone…" upon which she abruptly left him for the area yard, where she disapparated.

It was most fortunate that Harry was holding his briefcase, and that his briefcase contained Snape. He hurried after Deirdre Dowd and from the kitchen door heard distinctly the 'pop' of her departure. Without pausing to consider where it might be taking him, he rushed past a surprised Mrs. Purdy, out into the area yard, and followed the strong apparation trail. He hadn't had a stray second to let Snape know what was happening.

Harry apparated onto an overgrown path in a wooded area on the gentle slope of a hill. As he turned slowly around, he shivered slightly, for the wild tangle of ancient trees, the untamed brush, the creeping, all-covering ivy, could not conceal that he was in the midst of a cemetery whose half-hidden markers, solemn statues, and coffered tombs lay scattered about him in a jumble. It was cold and peaceful. There were no people. He had no idea which direction Miss Deirdre had gone.

Setting his briefcase next to one of the tombs, Harry took out flask and pensieve so that Snape could emerge and advise him. "Where do you think we are?" he asked as the silver mist took shape.

It took but a few seconds of observation. "Highgate," Snape replied. "The west section. Have you lost her?"

"There's nobody in sight," Harry said, glancing around.

"On a Monday in January, there won't be anyone here at all." Snape told him, turning in the pensieve as he tried to get his bearings. "Admission is as the member of a tour only. That's why we were able to use it. Very few interruptions. That way!" He pointed down the path to Harry's left. "Egyptian Avenue!"

Harry grabbed flask and pensieve and ran, Snape struggling to maintain his balance and directing Harry's turns until they reached a pharaonic arch flanked by obelisks and lotus-bearing pillars. There was still no sign of Deirdre Dowd. "Through there," Snape commanded. "He joined us a couple of times, and that's where he went."

"What's in there?"

"How should I know? You don't think I was stupid enough to follow him?"

Egyptian Avenue was a roofless tunnel, shielded by tree branches. On either side rectangular recesses were set in its walls, niches with blank doors. _Tombs,_ Harry thought. The path angled upwards between the doors, and was shorter than Harry at first thought, for he found himself suddenly in the open, confronting a circle of more tomb doors built into a curved wall that surrounded a huge cedar tree. Outside of and facing this circle, forming a kind of narrow street, was a semicircular wall of more doors. More cautiously now, Harry made his way between the tombs. Over the lintel of one of the doors was the word 'Columbarium.' The door was ajar, and Harry entered it, his wand now drawn.

There, crouched in a heap on the floor of the dim room, was Deirdre Dowd. She had opened one of the niches, but it was now empty. There was no sign of a soulstone coffin. There was no sign of any urn or casket at all, and Miss Deirdre herself seemed to be in something of a daze. She looked up as Harry entered and said, "I have to open it. What have you done with it? How can I open it if I don't know where it is?"

Harry handed her Snape's emerald flask. "Is this what you're looking for?" he asked.

"No… it's… it's not the right one. Where have you taken it? I have to open it."

"I'll take you to it," Harry said. Putting Snape's pensieve down on the stone floor, he helped Deirdre to her feet. "Could you carry this for me?" he asked, placing the flask in her hands. She took it without demur.

"What are you doing?" Snape demanded.

"We have to get her where they can help her," Harry explained. "She's still operating under the memory spell. I think Hogwarts would be best. She might even have information we could use." Picking up the pensieve, Harry balanced it in one hand while guiding Deirdre by the arm with the other. "You have to show me the way back to where we started."

"Why? Why not go straight to Hogwarts?"

"I left my briefcase by the tomb."

The return trip took longer, but Snape got Harry back to his briefcase. Snape went into the flask, flask and pensieve into the briefcase, then Harry and Deirdre apparated side-along to Hogsmeade where Harry sent a quick patronus to Professor McGonagall. A few minutes later they were climbing the hill to the castle.

Once inside, McGonagall took charge, taking Deirdre to the hospital wing where a portrait of Dumbledore had been hung on the wall so that he, too, could participate. As Madam Pomfrey checked Deirdre for symptoms to identify what kind of spell had been used, she managed to spare a few choice words for Snape.

"You'd better hide your face in that bottle, you ungrateful little runt. After all I've done for you, you'll be fortunate if I don't slip a cathartic into your coffee. When were you planning on remembering I exist, Tom Thumb?"

The stopper shot out of the green flask and Snape oozed himself into the pensieve. "How did you know it was me?" he asked, "if no one ever told you I was here?"

"Pomona let it slip yesterday, about taking the thestrals. I still want to know why you haven't dropped by here."

"I'm not the host," Snape grumbled. "I wasn't consulted about the guest list."

"A likely story." Pomfrey peered into Deirdre's ears. "What was it supposed to make her do?"

"Find and open something. Like post-hypnotic suggestion."

"Did she find it?"

"No," Harry answered for Snape. "She went to where it had been, but it was gone. So she couldn't complete the task."

"Did you try a substitute?"

"Right away. It didn't work." Harry pointed to Snape's flask. "It's unique. It looks just like that one, except it's purple. I tried to get her to open that one, but she knew it wasn't right."

"Miss Dowd?" said Dumbledore, and Deirdre looked at him, her eyes a bit glassy. "Miss Dowd, do you remember what it was that you were to open?"

"The genie," she replied. "I have to let the genie out."

"That's quite a metaphor," McGonagall observed.

"I'll need to keep her under observation for a while," said Pomfrey. "At least until I have some indication of the precise spell she's under. Removing it the wrong way could cause damage."

"Would it be all right if I ask her a few more things?" Dumbledore would have leaned forward had he not been two-dimensional. "Miss Dowd, do you know why Tom Riddle placed the genie's bottle where he did? In the…" He glanced at Harry.

"In the columbarium at Highgate Cemetery," Harry finished for him. "Why there?"

"The book of coming forth during the day," responded Deirdre. "Sata."

"I hope you know what that means," said Snape, looking over at Dumbledore. "Because I don't."

"I must confess," admitted the portrait, "to having always been intrigued by such things. That area of the cemetery has an Egyptian motif as I recall. The work Miss Dowd mentioned is popularly known as the _Egyptian Book of the Dead_, and talks of such things as the soul and body being rejoined so that the dead may return to life."

"That sounds like exactly what we want," McGonagall said.

"The bit just referred to is quite short. 'I am the serpent Sata whose years are infinite. I lie down dead. I am born daily. I am the serpent Sa-en-ta, the dweller in the uttermost parts of the earth. I lie down in death. I am born, I become new, I renew my youth every day.' It may, with its focus on a serpent, have had special meaning for Riddle."

"It sounds like what he told me in the Chamber of Secrets," said Harry. "He said that his name was an anagram for 'I am Lord Voldemort,' as if the 'I am' part was important, too."

"And Vol-de-mort does mean flight from death," Dumbledore added. "An immortal serpent for a parselmouth wizard. It does seem to fit. The question is – why is it no longer there, and when was it moved?"

"Professor Snape said that Voldemort used to visit the place." Harry turned to the pensieve. "You also said you were never stupid enough to follow him. When 'we' were using the cemetery because there'd be no interruptions. What were you talking about?"

"Yes, Severus," chimed in Dumbledore. "This sounds fascinating. What were you talking about?"

"We were practicing," Snape said, staring down at his hands. "Death Eaters. One of my jobs was to create silencing and concealing spells, and the operatives needed to practice them in a wooded area. The cemetery was convenient."

"And this would have been…?" Dumbledore prompted.

"Late seventy-nine. Early eighty." Snape wrinkled his brow in thought. "After he learned about the… you know."

"The prophecy," said Dumbledore. "It is perfectly acceptable to speak of it now. So he was worried, and he moved the flask. He may also have updated it. I wonder if he went back to it at any time between ninety-five and his death. We may have a very up-to-the-minute resurrection in the making."

"But where would he have moved the flask to?" Harry asked, worried.

"He was never one to be random," Dumbledore pointed out. "We have the possibility of deducing the location."

They set out with the idea that the words would be an anagram, the words being 'I am the serpent Sa-en-ta.' It was a long shot, but at least it gave them a place to start. Neville, Luna, and Ginny appeared in the hospital wing after their last classes, Luna making a set of tiles with the proper letters just as if she was playing Scrabble. Harry noticed soon after that the word 'street' was contained in the words, and for quite a while the group concentrated on trying to find street names. Harry even contacted Hermione to join them at supper and work on the rearranging of letters. They could, however, find no street names.

At about seven o'clock, tired and grumpy, Snape pointed out that they also had both the word 'Saint,' and the abbreviation 'St.' This began a whole new round of rearranging letters. Hermione brought up the fact that the abbreviation Mt. was also there, but there were more saints (Asaph, Theresa, Stephen...) that they could derive from the letters than mountains, and Hermione was forced to back down. Especially since the saints could refer to churches.

The clock ticked out the hours of the evening as two former headmasters, a current headmistress, two teachers, three students, four ex-students, a nurse and, eventually, a teacher/gamekeeper, worked on the problem. At about ten o'clock, George said, "Is there a village called Eastenham?"

The query got everyone's immediate attention. "Why Eastenham?" Harry demanded, looking over George's shoulder.

"Because if there's a St. Peter's church in Eastenham, we have a match," George told him. "Look. 'Saint Peter, Eastenham' equals 'I am the serpent Sa-en-ta.'"

"Is there an Eastenham anywhere in England?" Harry asked of the assembled group.

Hermione had, as was to be expected, an atlas of Britain. Eastenham turned out to be a village in North Yorkshire, between Rievaulx Abbey and the town of Helmsley. "And there is," she informed the group triumphantly, "a St. Peter's chapel there."

"Wonderful," added Snape. "It's in the valley of the Rye river. Ryedale is considered to be one source of the surname Riddle. This is coming together on several counts. May I suggest, since we have nowhere better to look, that we start with the chapel of St. Peter in the village of Eastenham, in the North Riding of Yorkshire?"

Shortly thereafter, the group retired for the night in order to get an early start the next morning. Harry (and therefore Snape) had a guest room on the sixth floor. Snape wasted no time in letting his displeasure be known.

"You have to go back to London," he told Harry. "Now. Before you go to bed."

"Why?"

"To tell Miss Arwella that her sister is staying the night at Hogwarts. What's she going to think, her sister having disappeared like that?"

Harry resisted, but Snape insisted. The insistence included the threat of keeping Harry awake all night, and Harry quickly gave in. He went down the hill to apparate back to London, spoke briefly to Miss Arwella, and soon rejoined Snape on the sixth floor.

"There. Are you satisfied?'

"Not really, but it's close enough."

Bridling at the perceived insult, Harry insisted, "What more could I have done?"

"Besides bringing Arwella here to be with her sister? I don't know… You might have thought of it yourself. It's not like you had a whole army of people to worry about."

"And you've had an army of people?" Harry sniffed in derision. "Right!"

"An army? No, never. A few dozen going out to fight and maybe get killed. Yeah."

"So did I! At the Battle of Hogwarts! Where were you when Fred was killed? Or Colin Creevey?"

Snape wheeled on the pensieve's surface, his head high and his eyes meeting Harry's. "Maybe I was letting some son of a witch kill me so that some other son of a witch could destroy a horcrux.," he said. "Could you do that? Stand there and stare death in the face knowing you couldn't fight back? Could you?"

Harry stared at Snape, then let his breath out slowly. "Probably not," he said with controlled calm. "Lucky it wasn't me that had to do it. I'd've screwed it up by fighting back. I'm not the type to go gently into that good night."

"And take everyone else with you!" Snape was practically dancing with frustration. "You'd let him win! You'd hold the door for him!"

It took effort for Harry to resist mentioning his confrontation with Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest and stand down from the battle with Snape, but he did. "What's wrong with you?" he insisted. "We could be going after the last of Voldemort tomorrow, and all you want to do is fight! Don't you care about our goals?"

Instead of answering, Snape dove for the flask and disappeared into the mists it contained.

Harry did not go to bed. Instead he sat staring at the green coffin for about ten minutes. _What upset him like that? He was fine, and then he was practically hysterical. I'd never have believed he could be hysterical – cool Professor Snape – but he said himself that he's different in the pensieve… He can't shut the doors._ Harry thought about the five-year-old boy with the closed, unfeeling eyes, and how they opened only for his mother. And for Harry's mother. And for Harry…?

He considered going back to London to get the memories Snape was keeping in the carafe, but then realized it wasn't necessary. _What I want to see, I've already seen. Those are my memories, too. I don't need to get them from his head. _The sixth floor 'room' was a small suite, and Harry took the pensieve into the inner bedroom to explore his own memories.

The first time Harry'd ever seen Snape had been at his first-year Sorting and the welcoming feast that followed. He concentrated on that event, drew the gossamer memory from his head into the pensieve, then entered it with a feeling of eager anticipation. He would be able to watch the scene unfold with nearly full background knowledge. Arriving in the entrance hall as the first years marched through, Harry ran past them up the center aisle in order to have a clear view of both the procession, and the professors watching it. Snape was on the left, next to Quirrell – next to Voldemort, though Snape did not know it. Harry's awareness of this fact heightened his tension, for he noticed that the back of Quirrell's head was watching Snape.

Harry could tell the moment Snape identified his own eleven-year-old self by the tiny twitch in Snape's nose and mouth, as if he smelled something bad. _He's looking at James Potter, not at me,_ Harry thought. Then Snape's face softened infinitesimally. _Did he see my mum in me, too?_ Another moment, and there was the hint of a smile. Harry moved quickly behind Snape to find he was watching Draco. _Stay cool,_ Harry told himself. _They were friends, schoolmates, he and Lucius. He may already have known Draco._

The Sorting started, and Harry watched his friends and classmates as they nervously approached the Hat, one by one. There was Hannah, who would lose her mother in sixth year, Lavender, who would make Hermione jealous over Ron, Justin, who would be petrified by a basilisk, and Hermione herself, trying so hard to look self-assured and yet so nervous.

Suddenly Snape leaned forward, focused and alert, for McGonagall had just called Neville's name. _He must have known that Neville was born in July._ Harry thought. _He may even have thought Neville was the One._ But what interested Harry even more was that Quirrell had just as suddenly turned to face Snape. _Did he do that so Voldemort could see Neville?_ There was more beneath the surface than Harry had expected. _Neither one of them totally discounted the possibility that the prophecy might have been referring to Neville!_

When McGonagall called his own name, Harry saw Snape lean forward with the same keen interest, but this time it was Quirrell who watched the Hat, and his turban that watched Snape. _Of course. Voldemort knew Snape loved my mum._ Harry thought back to the memory that pensieve Snape had destroyed. _Snape walked into that house knowing he'd kept Quirrell from killing me, knowing he'd threatened Quirrell and helped keep the Philosopher's Stone out of Voldemort's hands. Was he prepared to die?_

The feast started, and Harry became aware that his pensieve self was looking at the high table… looking at Snape. He hurried to the other side to watch Snape's face more closely. Snape glanced up, black eyes staring suddenly into green ones, and there was the sense of doors opening, barriers falling… Then pensieve Harry flinched as Voldemort touched his scar from the back of Quirrell's turban, and the connection was broken.

There was nothing more to be seen in that memory, and Harry left the pensieve. He had a lot to think about.

_He was waiting for me. Waiting to see what I looked like. I thought it was for the same reason everyone else was looking at me. Because I was famous. But it was because of my mum. And the prophecy. They were both still interested in Neville. Was I really the Chosen One, or had Voldemort planned to kill us both that night? Me first and Neville afterwards. It would explain why the Lestranges attacked the Longbottoms after Voldemort disappeared. He probably told them he was going to kill the Longbottoms after he dealt with the Potters. Didn't he say that after he killed me? That I had never been anything but a boy who relied on the sacrifice of others? It was Neville who confronted him then, Neville who killed Nagini with Gryffindor's sword…_

It was too confusing. Harry replaced his memory in his head and softly opened the door to the outer room. The emerald coffin was silent and still. Quietly he tiptoed over to the table where it stood and set the empty pensieve next to it. Nothing happened, so Harry returned to the bedroom and got ready for bed. Slipping between the sheets, he focused on the first thought.

_Why did he get so upset? He was fine until he found out we were staying the night instead of going back to London… That Miss Arwella needed to know where Miss Deirdre was… And worrying about people getting killed…_

It hit then. _I never worried about Fred and Colin because it never occurred to me they might die. I mourned for them after the fact, but not before. Snape betrayed his own colleagues to Dumbledore – I know some of them died. Does he feel like a murderer? Will Deirdre Dowd have to go with us? Is she going to die? Is that what's bothering him?_

It was a bit difficult for Harry to get to sleep after that.

xxxxxxxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

_Tuesday, January 26, 1999_

Then it was morning and Harry's nose was being tickled with a feather. "Spmiff!" Harry snorted. "Cut that out!"

"You ought to be getting up, Chosen One," Snape's voice replied. "You ought to be setting an example for the less worthy. This is, after all, your destiny."

Harry slapped at the feather and rolled over onto his left side. There was a nightstand next to the bed, and Snape was sitting on the edge of an old-fashioned candle holder. "I've been up for hours," Snape continued.

"What time is it?" Harry demanded.

"Five o'clock."

"I'm not getting up in the middle of the night!"

"It is _not_ the middle of the night. If this was June, the sun would be well up." Snape stood and twitched his wand. The feather resumed its tickling. "I have more tricks up my sleeve than just a feather, you know," he added.

"All right!" Harry cried, throwing back the bedcovers. "I'm getting up! Just cut it out!" He swung his feet off the bed and sat up so that he and Snape were face to face, more or less. He glared at his tiny tormentor, then asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get you out of bed, Lazy-Bones," Snape answered. "What else?"

"No, I mean what are you doing in my bedroom? The flask and pensieve are out there."

"Oh, that," said Snape. "I apparated. I tried to apparate to McGonagall's office to wake her up, but it was too far. This was a lot closer."

"What are you doing away from the flask and pensieve!" Harry shouted, wondering if Snape was going daft. "You're not supposed to be able to do that!"

"Who says? Maybe I just never tried it before."

"You tried lots of things in my room back in London. You couldn't apparate then." Harry rose and started throwing on clothes. Snape popped over to the window to modestly look down on the lake until Harry was finished. "That's scary, you know," Harry continued, fastening his shoes. "You being able to go anywhere, I mean. When we started, you weren't powerful enough to leave a memory in a pensieve."

"I'm a fast learner," Snape retorted irritably. "Nothing more."

"I think there's a lot more. I think the flask is making you stronger. I'm scared the other flask has made Voldemort too strong for us to fight."

"Don't be silly," said Snape, though his voice was not as confident as his words. "Maybe the flask has nothing to do with it."

"You hope," said Harry. He looked at Snape, his mind mulling things over. "Can I touch you?" he mused.

"I would prefer you didn't!" Snape snapped at him.

"Sorry." Harry didn't back down, though. "I wasn't really asking, 'May I touch you' – I was wondering if I could touch you. If I poked you with my finger, what would I feel?"

"My wand slicing your hand off at the wrist," said Snape, his eyes narrow. Then he added, for good measure, "Don't you dare try."

"Why not? We have to know what we're up against."

It took several minutes of persuasion, but Snape finally agreed to Harry's experimental probe. Slowly, cautiously, Harry extended his right hand toward Snape. His forefinger encountered nothing but air, and yet it was warmer than the air around it. He drew back.

"And?" Snape asked.

"Not like a ghost at all," Harry told him, "but not like a hologram either. You're not solid, but you're warm, like a body instead of a ghost. Is that good or bad?"

"How should I know?" said Snape. "I've never done this before."

It was five-thirty, so the two left the room for McGonagall's office, Harry carrying the flask and pensieve in his briefcase, and Snape riding on his shoulder. Around them the sleepy denizens of paintings stared and pointed, then left their frames to wake and inform others. In the short time it took Harry to reach the gargoyle on the floor above, Dumbledore and McGonagall had already been told of their approach and were ready to meet them.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Dumbledore asked Snape, who had risen to stand on Harry's shoulder as they entered the room.

"Search me," Snape shot back at him. "I didn't exactly plan it."

Slowly, over the next hour, the rest of the team gathered. As it did so, the debate over Snape and Deirdre Dowd intensified.

"I've not been wanting to say anything," said McGonagall, "but it has been getting a wee bit disconcerting the way ye've been traipsing about as if ye were a person."

"I am a person," Snape insisted.

"Ye haven't a body, lad, and that's generally considered one of the prerequisites."

"I have more of a body than Sir Nicholas or the Baron. I can read newspapers and drink coffee. And look, I can interact with the environment." With an air of triumph Snape, who had been pacing the top of McGonagall's desk, sat down on a little lacquer box that was intended to hold paper clips or push pins, but in McGonagall's case contained mints.

For response, McGonagall opened a drawer and took out a small pin. This she placed in front of Snape. "Pick that up," she told him.

"Piece of cake," Snape replied, standing and drawing himself up to his full five inches. He bent down and grasped the pin. Or at least he tried to grasp it. His hand went right through the pin, and it was very clear which of the two was not really there. After several attempts, Snape turned and kicked at the lacquer box in frustration. His foot vanished, and he himself fell over flat on his back from the momentum. Amid the general silence, he rose again and dusted himself off. "That doesn't prove anything," he said, with remarkable dignity.

McGonagall placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, her chin resting on her fists. Then she opened the drawer again, this time pulling out a magnifying glass which she trained on Snape, who stepped back in shock. "I don't really need to see…" he began.

"You're getting younger," McGonagall stated, then restated for the room in general. "He's getting younger. Look for yourselves. I'd put him at about twenty-seven."

One by one they started to look through the glass, but Snape stomped away across the desk, complaining to the air that he was a human being, not a laboratory specimen under a microscope.

"Here, lad," McGonagall said, taking a hand mirror from the drawer, "see for yourself."

Snape wheeled to find himself confronting the mirror. The image staring back at him for everyone to see was translucent, almost transparent, a little like a ghost with color. And it was definitely younger. "That doesn't prove anything either," he protested. "It's just that I have a youthful spirit."

"Right," said Hagrid, and the rest nodded in discreet silence.

"We must face the facts, Severus," Dumbledore's portrait asserted from the wall. "You are changing. You are getting stronger and more independent. You are also getting younger. What you are not doing is growing or becoming more solid. We have no way of ascertaining if these changes are a good thing or a bad thing. It does not augur well for what we shall encounter when we meet Voldemort in his flask."

"Maybe you need me, then," Snape countered. "Maybe I'm the only one who'll be on his level."

The point was taken, and debate shifted to Miss Dowd. "She needs to open the flask," was Madam Pomfrey's report. "Whenever she wakes up, it's the only thing on her mind. She's obsessed with it. I don't know what will happen to her if she isn't allowed to complete the task."

"It's like Mrs. Nokes," added Harry. "She fixated on the urn until we let her open it. Then she was fine and the urn lost all importance for her. I think we have to take Miss Deirdre with us and let her open the soulstone coffin."

"She'll get in the way," George objected. "We won't all be able to fight Moldyvort because we'll have to protect her."

"No we won't," Neville said. "She's a witch. She could help us."

"What if she's on his side and fights against us?" Ginny asked. "Are we ready to hurt or maybe kill her?"

"I don't think she will," Harry said. "Mrs. Nokes didn't care about the contents of the urn after it was opened."

"That's because Voldemort didn't come out of it," Hermione pointed out. "We don't know what she would have done if he had."

"I think we should take her," said Snape. "The soulstone may be expecting Miss Deirdre to open it, and we don't know what'll happen if it's done by the wrong person. Just designate someone to immobilize her as soon as it's done so we don't have to fight her, too. I suggest Flitwick. He's the best at charms."

"But," Hermione said, "he moved the flask. What if he put it in charge of someone else? What if Deirdre isn't the right one anymore?"

Dumbledore sighed. "There are some things we are just going to have to take on faith," he said.

It was fortunate that Hermione's parents had wanted her to be thoroughly familiar with the heritage of her country for she, alone among them, had already been to the ruins of the Abbey of Rievaulx. She side-along apparated with Harry (Snape tagging along in the briefcase), then the two of them returned for two others, then four others, until all were standing in the cold frosty air of a north Yorkshire dawn. It was nearly eight o'clock.

"Which way is Eastenham?" Harry asked, turning slowly on the road. It was overcast, and hard even to tell in which direction the sun was coming up.

"First things first," said Snape, who had left bottle and briefcase and was standing on a stone wall next to Harry. "Miss Weasley, you were the one the diary Voldemort tried to use for his resurrection, weren't you?"

"I didn't want to be," Ginny answered, a touch defensively.

"Nobody says you did. What we need to know is what it felt like. When he was using your life force to recreate himself, I mean."

Ginny knit her brows. "At first I felt like I didn't have any control over my actions. Like I was doing things without any kind of thought to it. After that, it felt like someone else was controlling me. Then I just got weaker and very tired and… I fainted."

"Do you think," Snape asked, "that if there had been anyone else with you, you would have been able to turn to that person and ask for help?"

"At the beginning," Ginny said after a moment. "Yes, when it first started. I think I could have done that. Not later, though."

"That's important," Snape told the group. "If any of you starts to feel the way Miss Weasley just described, say 'Help me' to one of the others. And if someone asks you for help, immobilize them. That way we can keep him isolated."

"It'll reduce our numbers," Sprout cautioned.

"Better that than having to fight each other," was Snape's reply.

All of them having agreed to this, Snape pointed to Harry's left. "Eastenham's that way."

"How do you know?"

"I looked at the map before we came. Besides, that's south."

It was a waste of time to walk. Harry packed Snape into the briefcase, and the wizards began apparating to spots they could see down the road, each time getting farther from the abbey and closer to the village. This time of year and day, there were no visitors to Rievaulx, and few people anywhere around. They were, nonetheless, careful not to be seen. Deirdre traveled with Madam Pomfrey, who wanted to keep an eye on her.

The village of Eastenham was deserted. There was a sense that the inhabitants had left rather hurriedly, somewhat like the ghost ship _Mary Celeste,_ for windows had been left open, beds unmade, and breakfasts still on the tables.

"How long ago do you think this happened?" Harry asked Snape, who was once again on his shoulder.

"Several months," Snape estimated. "Judging from the strawberries, sometime in the spring."

"Not years?"

Snape shook his head. "Not from the amount of decay."

"I wonder why…" Harry started, but the answer hit him forcefully at that moment. It was a feeling of dread, of certainty that something very large and very dangerous was about to attack him. A glance told him the others felt the same, except for Snape, who appeared unaffected. Several of the wizards stopped in their tracks, unwilling to go forward.

"What's wrong with you?" Snape demanded.

"Don't you feel it?" George asked.

"Feel what?"

"That… feeling. Like everything bad is about to happen."

"That's good," said Snape, rubbing his hands together.

"How can that…?' Harry started, but George spoke faster.

"Sure! It means we've probably come to the right place. Moldyvort is really here!"

"Did you hear that, Minerva?" Snape called to McGonagall. "Our labor hasn't been in vain! They learn!"

Beyond McGonagall, Pomfrey was having difficulty restraining Deirdre Dowd. Alone among them, Deirdre was pushing forward, fighting against Pomfrey's efforts to hold her. She was moving toward a small, dilapidated church several hundred yards from them.

Suddenly, Deirdre broke free and began to run, Pomfrey and the others after her, all concern with the sense of dread forgotten in the need to keep Deirdre in sight.

Through the village Deirdre ran, down the one little street and across a small common. Harry had always gotten the impression she was somewhat athletic, and now she proved it, staying well ahead of the pursuing wizards, even George and Ron. Then she was through the church stile and speeding across a tiny cemetery, a cemetery that responded violently to her passage.

On Deirdre's heels, the graves trembled and split open. From their depths oozed up ghouls and inferi, skeletons and zombies to block the way of those behind her. George reached the stile first, plunged forward, and was thrown back. "What the...?" he exclaimed.

It was some sort of shield charm, and one by one the wizards and witches collided with it and were stopped. Harry, right behind George, was tossed unceremoniously on his rear, staggered to his feet, and tried to feel his way around the invisible barrier. Snape, flung from Harry's shoulder at the collision, darted under the stile and turned to urge the others to follow. "Come on! She's way ahead of you!"

"We can't!" Harry yelled back at him. "It's shielded! You have to stop him!"

"Are you out of your mind?" Snape shrieked. "I'm not big enough, and I'm not strong enough! I can't even apparate to McGonagall's office! How am I supposed to stop him!"

"You have to! You're the only one who can get through!"

Snape's response was to scoot back under the stile to Harry's side. "Take out the pensieve!" he ordered. "Put me in your head!"

"That's not going to work!" Harry was practically sobbing. "I have a body! The shield'll stop me! He'll get away!"

"Not necessarily," Snape assured him. "It depends on how it's calibrated – for body or for mind. One thing is certain. If I go in there now, he'll know we've followed Miss Deirdre and he'll leave, and I won't be able to stop him. If he only sees her, he may feel safe and wait to get his bearings and the lay of the land. Get out the pensieve. Put me in your head. He'll stay for you!"

Harry did as he was ordered, pulling a memory into the pensieve and then replacing it once Snape had entered the memory. He heard a voice in his head say, "Walk forward. Try not to think," and he obeyed.

The barrier dissolved in front of him. Harry gasped, "How?" and Snape murmured, "I'll explain later." The undead swarmed in front of them, but turned out to be mere illusions. Harry brushed past them and entered the ancient chapel.

The chapel was a small building, its interior dominated by the altar. In front of the altar lay a tomb sunk into the floor and once covered by flagstones. That tomb was now open, Miss Deirdre collapsed into a little heap beside it. Next to the tomb lay the shattered fragments of the purple soulstone coffin. Rising behind them stood the ominous figure of Lord Voldemort.

"What's this?" said Voldemort as Harry approached, wand at the ready. "The 'Chosen One?' And alone? This promises to be amusing."

"Yes!" Harry cried. "Just as amusing as the first time, when we destroyed you in the Great Hall at Hogwarts!"

Voldemort frowned, his flat nostrils flaring and his red eyes glowering. "It isn't possible to kill me. You learned that once before."

"But we did it," Harry told him. "We found all the horcruxes. We destroyed them, even the snake. Do you think you would be here if we hadn't?"

That caused Voldemort to hesitate for a moment. He glanced at the slumped figure of Deirdre Dowd, then at the broken purple flask. That gave Harry an idea. "I have something you'll want to see," he told Voldemort, and drew the green flask out of his briefcase. He pulled out the stopper, letting some of the silver mist inside spill over the lip.

"Another magic coffin?" mused Voldemort. "How convenient. Do not think you can break this one as the other broke. They do not shatter so easily. Only the bursting forth of my being could exert the power needed to destroy it. That one will remain unbroken, and I shall keep it." He looked curiously at the flask as Harry set it on the floor. "What do you carry inside it?"

"Memories," Harry told him. "Memories we siphoned from the mind of one of your lieutenants as he lay dying. Memories that helped me find you."

"And what lieutenant might that be?" Voldemort sneered.

"Severus Snape."

There was a pause. "So Severus is dead," said Voldemort. "A pity. I would not have thought him so weak as to let himself be killed by you."

"I didn't kill him," said Harry. "You did. So that you could become master of the Elder Wand. I know. I watched it."

"The Elder Wand? Yes, I took it from that old fool Dumbledore, but it was not working properly." Voldemort sized Harry up with a glance, clearly deciding that information was more important than immediate attack. "I had already reasoned that it was because Severus defeated Dumbledore on the Astronomy tower and was unwittingly its master. I marvel that you were able to defeat me once I controlled it. And if you defeated me, why do you not carry it now?"

"Snape didn't defeat Dumbledore. By the time Snape arrived on the tower, Dumbledore had already been disarmed by Draco Malfoy. I defeated Draco in a fight, and now I'm master of the wand." Harry grinned. "We've hidden it. You'll never find it again, even if you do kill me. Pity. If you'd just looked at Snape's memory of the Astronomy tower, you'd have seen that Dumbledore no longer had his wand. You wouldn't have wasted a valuable lieutenant in a useless murder. Lucky for us. We got both of you for the price of one."

Harry was trying to think fast. This Voldemort had been renewed after the theft of Dumbledore's wand from his tomb, but well before the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry might be able to play on his ignorance.

Voldemort was thinking, too. "How is it that you watched Severus's execution?"

"It was in the Shrieking Shack. I was in another room, peeking through a chink in the wall. That's why I know how to kill you now. You left too soon, Riddle. Snape wasn't dead yet."

Red eyes glittering with anger, Voldemort strode forward, his wand raised. He paused before striking, however, calculating the possibilities. "Severus did not have that knowledge."

"Yes, he did. He knew a lot, Snape did. In the end he knew that you'd killed him over a wand when all you needed to do was defeat him. He hated you in that moment before he died, and when I went to him, he told me the secret."

"There is no secret!" Voldemort howled, his wand spurting red flame that Harry turned aside with a Protego.

"Good!" Harry spat at him. "You just keep believing that until its all over!"

Voldemort backed off. "Stand aside from that flask," he ordered Harry. "Stand aside. We shall see what Snape's memory tells us."

"It's not in there," Harry told him. "The last, dying memory never is. I'm the one who has a memory of it. Me. No one else."

With a swift _"Accio!"_ Voldemort summoned Harry's briefcase to his hand. Reaching into it, he withdrew the pensieve. "We shall see if it is there or not," he sneered.

Inside Harry's head a small voice spoke. "Break it. Shatter it. Make it disappear."

Without pausing to evaluate the advice, Harry cried, _"Evanesco!"_ The pensieve dissolved into air.

"No!" Voldemort screamed. "You will not keep this from me! If it is not Severus's memory, than it will be yours!"

"Never!" Harry shouted at him, glancing around for a place to hide from an attack. There wasn't much there.

Voldemort had other ideas, though. Instead of advancing on Harry, he shifted his attention to Deirdre Dowd. "You will give me your memory of Severus's death, or I will kill this foolish woman."

Harry thought about further resistance, then decided it wasn't necessary. "All right," he conceded. "I'll let you see the thought. Just don't kill her." He put his wand to his temple and pulled out the silver thread. "But you don't have a pensieve to view it in."

"I do not need a pensieve. I shall keep this thought to savor it at leisure, as if it were my own. But first I must test it." He spoke sharply to Deirdre. "Wake up, woman. Be useful."

Deirdre opened her eyes, and they were glassy, with no will behind them. Voldemort took the memory on his own wand and slipped it into her head. "What do you see?" he asked.

"I see a dying man," she replied. "There's blood everywhere."

"What does he look like?"

"Thin, a pale face, long dark hair…"

"Excellent," said Voldemort. "I will take it back now. He removed the gossamer filament from Deirdre's mind and, touching his head with his wand, placed it in his own. Then he smiled. "Ah, yes. The death of Severus Snape. I do not think I need you any longer, Chosen One."

Raising his wand and pointing it at Harry's chest, Voldemort began, _"Avada…"_ and then stopped, frozen in mid spell.

Harry, poised to jump, held steady as Voldemort struggled with the words. His heart was pounding, but his hopes were high.

_"Avada..."_ Voldemort gasped. _Avada k... ko... kobakta...! Kobakta... grashack!"_ He clutched his head, tearing at the places where hair no longer grew. "What devilry is this!" he shouted at Harry. "I will destroy you utterly, and everything you hold dear!" Spinning suddenly, he aimed his wand at Deirdre and cried, _"Avada kedavra!"_ but at the last second his arm twitched and the bolt of green crashed into a stained glass window, spraying shards in every direction.

"What's the matter?" Harry jeered. "Did you forget about me?" He was standing straight and still now. It might be safer than trying an unexpected dodge.

Froth formed on Voldemort's lips, so great was his rage. Taking two more steps forward, he aimed his wand and screamed, _"Avada...! Avada beewith...! Ka-nes! Wa-hi-nes!"_ No spell burst from his wand, for no such spell existed. The veins of his skull now standing out like blue snakes, Voldemort shrieked, _"Avada k.. ko... go.. go back to my little grass shack in Kealakekua Hawaii!"_ then stood, panting heavily, and stared at Harry.

Harry chuckled. "I guess you're not as powerful as you thought you were," he said. "Why don't you start slow and work your way up? Maybe an Expelliarmus to begin with."

"You tricked me," Voldemort snarled. Then his voice began to falter and shift, rising and falling in pitch and cadence. "You tricked _Get_ me, you _her_ filthy little gutter _out_ rat, but _I can't_ with your memory gone, _hold him_ your interference will be gone _forever_ as well!"

Harry moved toward Deirdre then, but Voldemort was closer and faster. He seized the witch by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Then, holding his wand to his temple, he pulled out a memory strand and placed it in her head. "There," Voldemort crowed, tossing Deirdre aside, "I am done with you!"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Voldemort's wand began spewing sparks in every direction. It jerked, twisted, spun, jumped, and nearly leapt out of his hand. Voldemort clung to it with all his might, but his voice was crying, "Run! Get her out! Now!"

Harry grabbed Deirdre and dragged her away from the altar. The chapel was small, but within a few feet of the door Deirdre found her legs and was running with him. They burst into the January sunshine with the spectacle of skeletons and ghouls dissolving into the ether in front of them. The barrier that held the rest of the Hogwarts party back was crumbling. George pushed his way through screaming, "I'm coming, Fred!" then suddenly an explosion rocked the chapel, every window bursting outwards, glass shattering over them.

As the group stopped in shock and ducked to avoid the shards of glass and stone, the roof of the chapel gave way and crashed downwards. Dust and pebbles sprayed out in a cloud.

"Snape!" Harry yelled, releasing Deirdre and rushing back into the chaos. A huge form lumbered beside him that he vaguely recognized as Hagrid.

"We're comin', lad," Hagrid was shouting. "You just hang on!"

The interior of the chapel was a cloud of dust. Harry waved his arms vainly in front of him to try to dispel it, but his passage to the altar and its sunken tomb was more by feel than by sight. He tried to see through the powder and dirt, noting that Voldemort was gone. Very little else was discernible. He took out his wand. _"Residet pulvis,"_ he said, but he now had little hope. The first thing he'd noticed in the settling dust was that the emerald green soulstone coffin was broken, shattered like the stained glass windows, its contents puddling in a disordered mess on the flagstones.

"Where is he?" Hagrid cried at Harry's elbow. "Where's Severus?"

There was only one option left. Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the lock of baby hair. _"Accio Snape!"_ he cried with a flourish of his wand. The pool of memories coalesced with, Harry hoped, every other remnant of Snape in it. He tossed the lock of soft black hair into the mix and waited.

It didn't take long. In less than a minute the mists were congealing, swirling, forming into a shape, a shape like a human form. Bones meshed into a skeleton, which clothed itself in blood-tinged muscles, then covered itself in skin. Harry was trying to take it all in when Hagrid pushed past him. Removing his moleskin coat, Hagrid threw it over the still-morphing figure. As the dust settled to the floor, the rest of the party crowded into the chapel – witnessing the final transformation.

He was, as McGonagall had pointed out, in his mid twenties. With no regard whatsoever for Harry's position as 'the Chosen One,' Hagrid established his primacy by easing himself onto the floor and gathered the newly-formed Snape into his arms. "It's all right," he crooned. "Y're safe."

"No!" the resurrected Snape cried, burying his face in Hagrid's side. "Lily's boy! Tell him… tell him… no more Dark Lords… no more _personas_… that one… the last! He must… destroyed!" He melted into Hagrid's arms, sobbing in pain.

Although sure he would find nothing in the wreckage and debris, Harry made a quick check for an apparation signature. There was none. Voldemort was gone without a trace. He turned toward Hagrid. Snape was quieter now, breathing heavily.

This was Madam Pomfrey's job, and she knelt next to Hagrid to do it while McGonagall shooed the rest outside. Harry was leaving, too, when Pomfrey called back, "Potter should stay. He's carried Severus around in his head. He may have experience we'll need." She bent down to ask quietly, "Where's the pain?"

"My head," Snape whispered. "Everywhere. Mostly my head."

Carefully, gently, Hagrid began to examine Snape's body, letting Pomfrey focus on a healing chant to relieve the headache. Harry was certain there was more to it than a simple headache, but he also understood that the first priority was to get Snape to a stable condition where they could move him back to Hogwarts. Apparation right now was out of the question.

"Will you look at that," Hagrid murmured to Pomfrey, who glanced down.

"My, my," she said, raising an eyebrow and then continuing her chant.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"Ain't nothing wrong. He just don't have scars no more." Hagrid was checking joints – wrists, elbows…

"I didn't know Professor Snape had scars." Harry edged closer.

"'T weren't yer business to know. 'T ain't yer business now. A man's lived an eventful life, he's bound to carry evidence of it. Here's somewhat ya already know about though." Hagrid lifted a fold of his coat to show Harry Snape's left arm. The skin of the inner forearm was smooth and clear. There was no dark mark there.

"Why…?" Harry began, but at that moment Pomfrey stopped her chanting.

"DNA does not carry the effects of physical events," she said. "And don't look so surprised. I may be a witch, but I can read a muggle book as well as anyone. The mark and the scars are on the body you buried last year. This is a new one."

"Why's he an adult?" Harry demanded.

"Because we're wizards, not muggles. This isn't cloning it's something else." She gazed at Snape, who now appeared to be sleeping. "I think we can move him. Let's get him to Hogwarts."

Hagrid apparated with Snape. It was still mid morning, and the students were in their classes except for those few who had a free hour anyway, or whose professors happened to be absent from the school for the morning. Just to be on the safe side, Hagrid carried Snape to his hut, where he bundled the unconscious professor in blankets and built a roaring fire. "Do we got clothes for him?" Hagrid asked Pomfrey, the others, except for her and Harry, having gone up to McGonagall's office.

"Yes," Harry replied. "In the storage area on the sixth floor. I know there are clothes from his home. I'm not sure about robes for school."

"We won't need robes," Pomfrey reminded him. "Technically he's not a professor. He is legally dead, after all."

"That doesn't stop Professor Binns," said Harry. He left the hut and raced up to the castle to go through Snape's boxes again. Once there he realized he wasn't sure which muggle clothes were Tobias's and which, if any, were Severus's. Everything looked about the same size. To be on the safe side, he bundled everything that looked like men's clothing, shrinking it with a spell to make it easier to carry, and took it down to Hagrid's hut.

Snape was awake, swaddled in blankets and reclining on a pile of pillows in front of the fire. He held one of Hagrid's large cups and was sipping a light broth. _Probably chicken soup,_ Harry thought. He undid the bundle and started laying the clothes out on the bed.

"Where'd ya get those?" Snape asked. "They're m' dad's." The accent was that of the five-year-old Harry had seen in the first memory he'd taken from the flask.

"All the things from your old house are here at the school now," Harry told him. "We're hoping some of this will fit you."

"Who gave you permission to go mucking about in my things?" Snape asked. He didn't sound angry, but he didn't sound pleased either.

"They had to be moved after you died. The town's taken the house…"

"Are you daft? Ah'm not dead. Dead people don't drink soup in front of a fire."

Harry glanced at Hagrid and Pomfrey. "Voldemort killed you. It was nearly nine months ago."

"Ah don't remember that," Snape said flatly, taking another sip of his soup. "Ah think if that was true, Ah'd remember it."

"What do you remember?" Harry asked. "There was a while when you couldn't remember anything unless you went inside it." He noticed that both Hagrid and Pomfrey were attentive, but staying carefully out of the conversation.

"Tha's right," Snape reflected. "There was that bottle thing, wasn't there? Stupid kind of a life, that. Living in people's heads." He looked down at the cup, then finished the soup with one long swallow, for it was no longer really hot. "Well, get on then. Show us wha' cha brought."

Harry stood aside so that Snape could see all the clothes. He was a bit picky. "Not that one. The last time m' dad wore that one… Ya don't want t' know. That there's mine. I wear it t' the pub now 'n again…" Item after item passed under review. Snape finally chose a serviceable pair of working class denim trousers with a pale blue shirt and a dark leather jacket. The shoes he picked were a sort of low boot.

"You know who you'll look like," Hagrid complained.

"Get stuffed," was Snape's amiable reply.

Pomfrey and Harry left the hut while Hagrid assisted the still weak Snape to get dressed. That feat accomplished, they returned to find Hagrid laying out the table for a luncheon. Snape was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked both tired and interested. He did not look like a Hogwarts professor, but like someone from… Harry was not sure. Maybe the nineteen-sixties.

"Ye're not really planning t' serve us yer own food, are ya?" Snape was asking. "We don't all have the digestive system of a giant y' know."

"That's just yer opinion," Hagrid countered. "Harry likes my food, don't ya Harry?"

"Well… I… eh…" Harry started, then found his escape. "Professor Snape's gone through a rough time. Don't you think he needs something a bit easy on the digestion? Bland, really."

"Yes," chimed in Pomfrey. "We have to be careful, you understand. We don't want to overtax his system."

It was three to one. The house-elves were summoned, and the house-elves provided. The range of delicacies was limited, given Snape's delicate condition (which Snape passionately denied), but there was certainly enough for everyone to have his fill. Pomfrey, as befitting her position of authority, monitored Snape's intake.

"No. You will not have any of the chocolate trifle. I am not going to be holding a pan for a patient to vomit into for the rest of the afternoon."

"Ya right git," Snape muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Ah said Ah liked it," Snape retorted. "Yer tender concern for my condition makes me feel all warm inside." He poked at his chocolateless food. "Ya old bat," he added for good measure.

"I heard that!"

"It has occurred to me," Harry offered by way of changing the subject, "that since your last transformation, your character seems to have altered." He looked to Hagrid and Pomfrey for confirmation, then gazed, wide-eyed and innocent, at Snape.

"I am," Snape replied with some dignity, "no different 'n I ever was."

"What do you remember?" Harry challenged.

"A lot of things."

"What don't you remember?"

"Now how 'm I supposed t' know what I don't remember? You go ahead and tell _me_ all the things that _you_ don't know!"

"I don't know how far it is from the earth to the sun, for one. I heard once, but I don't re…"

"Ninety-three million miles, give or take a few and depending on the season o' the year. Go ahead. Gi' me another."

Pomfrey interrupted. "The recitation of facts is irrelevant to the situation. And don't mimic me, young man, or I shall box your ears. Do you remember that up until an hour ago you were a disembodied personality surviving through the medium of soulstone?"

Snape glared at her, then backed down. "Yes 'm," he replied.

"And that your last contact before you were allowed to resume physical form was with the mind of the wizard who calls himself Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes 'm," said the chastened Snape.

"Well then, eat your chocolate trifle and think for a bit how you can help us get rid of him. I'd far rather get rid of him than have to get rid of you."

"Yes 'm" said Snape with a hint of a smile as he picked up a fork and aimed at the chocolate trifle.

The original plan had been to keep Snape at Hagrid's hut until dinner time when the entire school would be in the Great Hall and he could go up the hill to McGonagall's office unseen. As long as they were eating lunch, where the presence of the food held their attention, all went well. As soon as the table was cleared, however, it became evident that they had a problem, for Snape became increasingly hard to deal with, unable to focus on any one thing for more than a few minutes at a time, drawn to the smallest distractions, his mood racing up and down like a roller coaster.

"While you were in his head," Harry asked as the conversation shifted to the overriding priority of locating Voldemort, "did you pick up any clues as to where he may have gone?"

The nervous drumming of Snape's fingers paused. "How could I've missed doing that? It's not like I was otherwise occupied. It mightn't 've been while I was trying to keep him from killing you, might it?"

"Sorry. I understand you were busy, but we have to find him, and we don't have a lot of clues…"

Snape was on his feet, skirting Hagrid's bulk and crossing the hut to a shelf next to a workbench where he started rearranging bottles and jars. "Where'd ya get this?" he demanded of Hagrid, holding a wide jar of what looked like ointment.

"What is it? Hagrid asked.

"Salve for thestral hooves. It says, 'good for thrush' on the lid."

"You made that for me."

"Tha's a bluddy lie. I don't know any salves for hooves."

Snape put the jar back and continued sorting, pulling out and rearranging things several times and occasionally commenting on one. Pomfrey and Hagrid looked concerned.

"Obsessive-compulsive behavior," Pomfrey murmured to Harry. "I'll grant that he's been known to become obsessed with things, but not on this small scale, and to fidget so…"

"And he did make those ointments," added Hagrid in a whisper. "Several years back he took to analyzing stuff I bought f'r the beasties and whipping up his own. I got to admit, his is generally better."

"That means," Harry said, "that we do have some memory problems here. I have some of them – memories, I mean, the bad ones – in a carafe in London, but mixing medicines isn't there. I hope we didn't lose too much in that explosion in…"

He was interrupted as Snape suddenly left the workbench and its shelves to dart across the room and out the door into the back garden. "Oh, no you don't," cried Hagrid, jumping up and following him. "You ain't getting away that easy!"

But Snape wasn't getting away. He was standing at the edge of the garden looking around in a puzzled way. "Where're the trellises," he asked plaintively. "There were beans growing here."

"No, lad," Hagrid said gently. "Not for many a year."

"I think we need to get you into the castle," said Pomfrey.

"Hospital wing?" Harry asked.

"No. Too public if any student should be sick or injured. Better the headmistress's office."

At first, Snape didn't want to go with them, but after a few minutes his head began to ache again. Pomfrey assured him that up in the castle she could make it better, so he followed her quite meekly up the hill and the staircases to the seventh-floor gargoyle. Harry ran ahead to let McGonagall and Dumbledore know they were coming.

"Where's the headmaster?" Snape asked on entering the office. He stopped, staring at the portrait on the wall above the desk. "What're you doing up there?" he asked, his voice reflecting his suspicion, then his eyes glanced around, flitting from one face to another. "What've you done with Dumbledore?" He reminded Harry of an animal in a cage – a leopard maybe, or a panther.

_Please, not paranoid, too,_ Harry thought. _We're going to spend all our time trying to keep him calm and reasonable, and meanwhile Voldemort's getting away and planning more evil._

"I assure you, Severus, that I am quite well," Dumbledore spoke from the wall. "No one has done anything to me. I merely find this mode of communication more relaxing. But what of you? You do not look well. You had a bad headache earlier; has it returned?"

It was the right thing to say. The conversation now on his own health and comfort, Snape became less aggressive. His hands went to his temples. "It won't stop… pounding," he told the portrait. "I can't remember things, and what I do remember is different." He sounded almost frightened.

"You need rest," Dumbledore said gently. "Madam Pomfrey can help with the pain and let you sleep. Not too deep a sleep, though, Poppy. I believe he needs to dream. Dreaming works wonders when it comes to sorting out thoughts."

Snape fell asleep on the sofa. The others – Harry, Hagrid, Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Dumbledore – stayed with him, conversing in low, soft voices.

"Do you really think dreaming will help, sir?" Harry asked Dumbledore.

"Would you like it to help him?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Very much."

"To get rid of what is left of Voldemort, or for his own sake?"

"If you'd asked me that a month ago, I'd have had a different answer. Believe it or not, I've actually gotten to like him."

"Not a proposition I would have put any money on two years ago. Or even six months ago. I am curious. The rest of us here are fond of Severus because we remember the lonely child, and we know what trials he has endured with no expectation of reward to help a world that has seldom accepted him. What has caused you to change your mind?"

"I saw things. Some were before I realized he was conscious in that flask. Others were with his permission. I got to see the child, too. And some of the things that were happening behind the scenes, things I didn't know about before. Like trying to get us to realize that Professor Lupin was a werewolf. And he didn't drive Sirius to his death, I know that now. I even know why he and my dad hated each other. If I'd been him, I'd probably have hated my dad, too. They were both jealous."

At a nod from Dumbledore, McGonagall brought out a bottle of mead and some tea sandwiches, even though it wasn't yet teatime. Harry munched thoughtfully on one of the sandwiches. "You haven't answered my question yet," he reminded Dumbledore.

"About the dreaming? I certainly hope it will help. As I understand, poor Severus's resurrection was somewhat haphazard. A broken flask, a disordered pool of memories, a shell-shocked psyche, and a lock of hair in a dust-filled war zone. Not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. There is no way of telling how misshapenly he was put back together. Dreaming is a way for the mind to put its house in order, file and arrange things. We shall hope for the best."

Snape moaned slightly in his sleep, and Harry rose, crossing the room to look down at him. "How old do you think he looks now?" He asked the room in general. They had, after all, watched Snape at this age once before.

McGonagall came to stand beside him. "We always look younger in our sleep, dear," she said. "It smoothes out the lines of tension and care. Still… Albus, he's looking about as he did when he started teaching. I do hope he doesn't get younger every time he falls asleep. That could get awkward quickly if it takes us a while to find Voldemort."

After only a few hours, Snape woke. The headache gone, he complained of hunger, so they had the house-elves bring dinner, it being dinner time. It took some coaxing to get Snape to sit down to eat, however. He was pacing like a caged animal again, picking things up and putting them down. From the few words he snapped at them, it appeared the provincial accent was gone, too.

With Snape finally seated, things did not get better. He seemed to have lost manual coordination. Harry watched sadly as Snape fumbled and dropped knives, forks, and a cup full of hot tea. Hagrid tried to assist him, and Snape lashed out, hitting Hagrid in the arm. "Leave me alone!" he shouted.

Nobody was surprised when Snape suddenly leapt up from his chair and headed for the door. McGonagall did the honors with a quick _"Locomotor mortis!"_ stopping him in his tracks, then she and the rest rose to help him back to the sofa.

"No," Snape cried, striking the hands away. "I have to go to the laboratory, the Potions room. Don't stop me, please!"

McGonagall glanced over at Dumbledore, who nodded. "Very well, laddie," she told Snape, "but I think this time we'll give ye school robes. There's not like to be anyone out of the Hall right now, but better if ye look like ye belong here." She summoned robes from the bedroom and draped them over Snape's shoulders, then released him.

Snape shot through the door and raced down the stairs, the others strung out behind him, Harry first as his youth gave him more speed. They went straight to the Potions classroom, where Snape flung open cabinet doors and began grabbing ingredients from the shelves. The odd thing, which Harry noted at once, was that he never looked at the labels. His fingers went straight to the jars and tins as if they, not his head, had the eyes.

His earlier clumsiness now gone, Snape worked with lightning speed, as if demons impelled him. Brazier lit, ingredients chopped, crushed, and measured, and always the hands ahead of the eyes, until a cauldron was simmering merrily and there was nothing more to do for a while.

Snape sat trembling at one of the desks, staring in horror at his fingers. "What's wrong with me?" he whimpered.

Struck by sudden illumination, Harry drew his wand. Approaching carefully, he said the spell to release a memory and touched Snape's hand. From the tips of Snape's fingers, a faint mist coalesced into a silver filament, a memory strand. Harry extracted the entire thread, then lifted it and placed it in Snape's head. Snape's trembling stopped immediately.

"What was that memory, Severus?" McGonagall asked quietly.

"Salve for thestral hooves," replied Snape, staring at his hands.

Hagrid chuckled. "You see. I knew you could make it."

"What's wrong with me?" Snape repeated. "I don't understand why this is happening."

Harry sat down beside the Potions master. "Do you still remember being in Voldemort's head?" he asked. Snape nodded. "Apparently he forced you out somehow and demolished part of the chapel as he left. The flask your memories were stored in was destroyed, and I wasn't sure where your… your personality had gone, So I did an Accio to summon what I could and added a lock of your hair, and you got your body back. It was a bit disorganized, though, so the memories seem to be… misplaced."

Snape had stared at Harry through the whole recital. "Where did you get a lock of my hair?" was his first question.

"It was with your parents' things here in storage. Your mom saved it from when you were a baby."

"Why didn't you just repair the flask and put the memories back in?"

"To be honest, I didn't think about it in time. I didn't know how long you could survive loose like that, and the first thing that came to mind was the hair."

"George Weasley took the flasks," McGonagall added from her place near the door. "He did try a Reparo, but it didn't work. He's going to experiment with them in his shop."

Snape examined his hands. "Does this mean I'm going to have more memories oozing out of my fingers?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "Do you want to try another?" He raised the wand that was still in his hand.

There was a moment of hesitation from Snape, then he nodded. Harry touched the tips of his fingers with the wand, and another memory strand was pulled out. When it entered Snape's head, he jumped quickly from his chair with a cry of "No!"

"What is it?" several voices asked him as Snape clapped his hands to his temples.

"My parents," Snape gasped. "Dead... car crash." He paused until the memory was under control, then looked at Harry. "Where's my wand?" he demanded. "I don't want you to do this. I want to do it myself, without a band of spectators."

McGonagall laid a hand on Snape's arm. "We buried your wand with you in Lancashire," she told him gently. "I doubt it's in perfect condition anymore."

"I want a wand. I want to do my own magic with my own wand!"

It was a request they could all sympathize with. Hagrid pointed out that was barely seven o'clock in the evening, and that Ollivander's wand shop was probably still open. Most of the shops in Diagon Alley were probably still open.

"Ollivander?" said Snape. "He's back? What happened to him?"

"He was a prisoner of Voldemort's in the Malfoy mansion. He… was rescued." Harry decided to wait for a better time to explain his own role in that rescue. "Let's go now. Let's get you a wand right now."

They bundled Snape in a warm cloak with a hood so that he wouldn't be so noticeable in Diagon Alley, then he, Harry, and Hagrid hurried down the hill to the Hogsmeade gate and apparated, Snape with Harry. Slipping quickly through the Leaky Cauldron, they entered Diagon Alley and made their way to Ollivanders.

Ollivander was in the front of his shop, arranging a shelf of wand boxes. "Good evening," he said as the bell above his door tinkled, only to see who had entered a moment later after he turned around. "My word. Hagrid? Mr. Potter? I do hope all is well and that nothing unfortunate has happened to your wands. Or do you want one for your companion?" He grimaced in Snape's general direction. "I don't believe I have ever sold a wand to you, mister…?"

"Prince," said Harry quickly. Snape glanced up, but didn't object.

"Really? Excuse me, sir. I rather thought you resembled another wizard, alas now deceased. Are you by chance related to the late Severus Snape?"

"Distantly," said Snape. "He was a sort of an… uncle."

"I am intrigued. I was never in the position of being given the honor of supplying him with a wand and confess to having been curious. We cannot have everything in life. Are you also a potions master?"

"I am," said Snape, pushing the hood back away from his head. His 'resemblance' to his older self was now explained, and he had no reason to hide his face.

"Let me see…" Ollivander mused. "Perhaps we can start with this one. Yew, with a core of unicorn hair…"

Snape was leery of even trying a yew wand. He needn't have worried. The wand quickly showed it was not for him. Ollivander then tried several more, with little success.

"What's the longest you've ever taken to match a wand to a wizard?" Harry asked as Ollivander presented Snape with a maple wand that had a dragon heartstring core. That wand wasn't right for Snape either, so Ollivander returned to the shelves.

"Not me, personally," he told Harry as he searched through the boxes, "but about one hundred eighty years ago we had a young muggle-born wizard who took three days to team with a wand. It's in the archives. He was resisting, of course; he didn't want to be a wizard. As young as he was, he had this idea that he would become famous in the muggle world. He fought every wand my great-grandfather gave him. Outlandish name. Benjamin something-or-other. Good with Confundus and Glamour charms as I recall. Ah! Let us try this one!"

The wand was of rowan with a mandrake root core and throbbed with life the moment it touched Snape's hand. Harry, counting out the galleons for Ollivander, heard Hagrid's sudden yell of "Hey, there!" and turned in time to see the edge of Snape's cloak as he slipped out of the shop and darted down the alley. Not waiting for his change, Harry followed Hagrid out into the evening and the still-crowded street. Snape was nowhere to be seen.

"Check the Leaky Cauldron!" Harry yelled at Hagrid. "If he went outside to disapparate, follow him!" As Hagrid lumbered off, Harry began searching the shops in the Alley.

It wasn't easy. First, of course, Diagon Alley was full of people. Second, Harry had to keep an eye on the people passing by in the street at the same time that he was checking the inside of each shop. Third, people kept pointing him out to their children, or stopping him to wish him well, all of which was gratifying in a way, but it made Harry feel awkward to be speaking with someone while at the same time watching over his shoulder.

Hagrid came back to report that Snape hadn't gone out through the Leaky Cauldron. That meant that theoretically he was still in Diagon Alley. Now at least Hagrid could keep an eye on the passing shoppers while Harry devoted his attention to the interiors. It was still slow going, and after forty-five minutes they'd caught no glimpse of Snape.

It was as he passed Eeylops Owl Emporium for about the fifth time that Harry ran into Hermione. She was on her way to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to see if Ron wanted to go somewhere after the shop closed. "What are you doing down here?" she asked Harry. "I thought you'd stay up at Hogwarts taking care of the professor."

"He's not at Hogwarts," Harry confessed. "We brought him down here to get a wand, and now he's given us the slip."

"That doesn't sound right," said Hermione. "As I recall, only this morning you were trying to assemble what was left of him into something approximating a whole person. What's he doing out of the hospital? Did Madam Pomfrey approve?"

"It's a long story," Harry sighed, and explained as briefly as he could about the memory gaps, the headaches, and the memory threads that came out of Snape's hands. "He got a really unpleasant one – a tragic one – and now he wants to be able to sort out his memories in more privacy. That's why we're here. He wanted his own wand so he could arrange his own thoughts."

Hermione knit her brows. "I'm not sure that's a good idea if his thoughts are as fragmented as you say. And there's another problem. Now that he's not a genie in a bottle, where is he going to live? The world still doesn't know he's alive. There's going to be quite a reaction."

"The world may not have to know. He's still getting younger. We could pass him off as a nephew or something."

"I suppose that could work, as long as the getting younger doesn't continue for long. Could you imagine introducing a twenty-year-old one day, and then a week later he's eleven?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Harry admitted.

The three of them – Harry, Hagrid, and Hermione – walked casually into the Weasley joke shop to find a hyper Ron. "There you are!" he cried when he saw Harry. "I've been trying to figure out how to get hold of you. He's been here for near an hour, and George hasn't been out here to help all that time."

"Snape's here!" Harry exclaimed, hating himself for not having thought of it earlier. "That's right. They hit it off pretty well, didn't they? In the back?"

"Yeah, but don't go busting in like a bull elephant." Ron grinned at the image. "I understand they're working on something sensitive."

Harry approached the door to the back room with some caution. His ear next to the door jamb, he heard George say, "All right, then. I've got a sickle here that says that one's about a Potions class at Hogwarts. We haven't had any of them so far, and it's overdue."

"I can't go as high as a sickle, and you know it," Snape's voice – a young, almost teenage voice – replied. "Here's five knuts that it's about Death Eater Headquarters."

Taking a deep breath, Harry opened the door. George and the youthful Snape were sitting opposite each other at a table. Snape's wand held the misty silver filament of a memory. Between them, waiting to receive the memory, was a pensieve. As Harry stepped through the door, the memory was already going into the pensieve's bowl.

"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded of both of them. "We've been searching for hours!"

"There you are, you sadistic barsted," George commented mildly. "What did you mean by shoving an unknown memory into a poor bloke's skull like that, and in public, too? Somebody ought to lock you up." He then added, for good measure, "And by my reckoning it's been less than an hour, so you can drop that line of attack as well."

Harry found himself suddenly on the defensive. "It wasn't anything new. For crying out loud, it was his own memory."

"Look, Socrates," said George, "if you have no memory of something and then someone tells you, it's like learning about it brand new for the first time. Same shock, same pain. The brain doesn't say, 'Oh, yeah, I know this.' It says, 'My parents are dead? When? Why?' You go stampeding through the mind like a rhinoceros on a rampage, and you're going to cause a trauma."

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, changing the subject.

"Releasing the memories in a more controlled, less threatening way. We get a preview, and if we want to see more, we do."

"Ready?" Snape asked.

"As I'll ever be," George replied. "Let 'er rip."

Snape touched his wand to the surface of the pensieve and an image coalesced in front of them – an image of a young boy on a flight of stairs. Harry recognized him at once, for it was exactly the same boy he'd seen with Lily for the impromptu riverside birthday party. _Nine years old,_ Harry's brain registered at the same instant that he realized another person on the stairs was charging forward, unmistakably Snape's father and unmistakably violently drunk.

With cool poise and a calm that belied his age, the boy Snape extended his wand in a classic gesture that would have had Flitwick swooning with joy and cried, _"Stupefy!"_ Before the rest of the scene could unfold, George had risen and stopped the play of the memory. "Both wrong," he said. "All bets off. Do you want to see the rest? Do you know what's going to happen?"

"No," said Hagrid, and Harry wheeled in surprise, for he hadn't heard Hagrid enter the room. "He don't want to see it," Hagrid continued. "Not now and maybe not ever. Ya got someplace t' store the ones ya ain't going t' use right away? Put it there."

"You can't know what's in that one," Snape pointed out. "You didn't know me then. It was before I went to Hogwarts."

Hagrid summoned a chair and sat leaning forward so that his face would be more on a level with Snape's. "I got to admit it's getting real confusing looking at ya. Who's inside there, the boy or the man?"

"I'm thirty-eight years old," said the too-young Snape nervously. "I remember most things. I know I died and was living in a bottle, if that's what you mean. I know we still have to destroy the last remnant of the Dark Lord."

"Do you remember as I used to watch over ya and make sure ya ate proper?" When Snape nodded in reply, Hagrid extended his hand. "Ya want me t' check yer back? Make sure y're in good shape?"

Before the sentence was finished, Snape was on his feet, backing away from Hagrid, anger flaring in his features. "That's private!" he cried. "You have no right..."

"That's when it happened," Hagrid went on quietly, rising himself and nodding at the pensieve. "Yer mum felt real strong about not using magic on muggles. You told me 'n Dumbledore about it yerself."

Understanding glimmered in Harry's brain. "It's gone now, though, isn't it, Hagrid? That's what Madam Pomfrey meant." He turned to Snape. "You have a new body. Look at your left arm. The dark mark isn't there either."

Setting his wand on the table, Snape slipped off the leather jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The skin of the arm was clear and smooth. He glanced up at Hagrid. "What are you staring at?" he demanded.

"Yer legs. I don't think y've had rickets either. Y're looking a lot healthier 'n I've ever seen ya. Teeth?"

Snape held a hand in front of his mouth and seemed to be checking with his tongue. "Straight," he told Hagrid. "Why?"

"Jaw was large enough when they come in this time," said Hagrid. "You get much younger, though, and you may start shrinking. Then y'll have a problem."

Hermione, who'd also entered the room, spoke up. "Could he get smaller? Getting younger is one kind of magic, but it doesn't involve reducing mass. That's a whole different spell. Professor, do you remember how old you were when you reached your full height?

Snape stared at her as if he didn't understand the question, so it was Hagrid who answered. "Seventeen," he told Hermione. "And I doubt he's gained a pound since. Always was a skinny runt."

"I'm going to hex you," muttered Snape.

"Can't hex giants. It don't stick," Hagrid reminded him complacently.

"I'd say then," Hermione continued, "that seventeen's a natural stopping point. Your brain isn't getting less mature, and if your body stops, then the whole reverse aging thing stops."

I certainly hope so," said Snape. "The prospect of being an infant genius is not appealing."

George had gotten up and was rummaging through a cupboard. "Here's a likely jar." He showed the room an amber apothecary jar with a tight lid. "If you don't want to see the one where your mum thrashes you, we can slip it in here."

Snape agreed, and the memory went into the jar. He and George sat down again, Snape's wand once more in his hand.

"How do you know when there's a memory there?" Harry asked, drawing up a chair on Snape's left. Hagrid was already on the right, and Hermione had gone back into the shop.

"My fingers start tingling. It isn't fun, you know. It might be easier if I had a good idea how many memories were misplaced, but you can't estimate what you can't remember."

"How many have you retrieved already?"

"About a dozen. I haven't been keeping count."

"Good ones? Bad ones?"

"Mostly neutral. Normal, everyday things. What are most of your memories about, after all?" Snape's fingers twitched and he looked over suddenly at George. "Incoming. Any bets?"

"Well if you're not wagering more than a couple of knuts, I'm not either. I say it's a Quidditch game."

"And I say… it's somewhere in Lancashire."

"Done."

The coins went down on the table, and then Snape drew the memory thread from his fingers and placed it in the pensieve. "Ready?" he asked George.

"Go for it," George told him.

A tap of his wand, and Snape's image rose in the pensieve. He was wearing a white lab coat and decanting a solution into a beaker. The laboratory around him gleamed with polished counter tops, shining metal equipment, and sparkling glass. Snape himself looked calm and collected, completely engrossed in what he was doing. Harry guessed him to be around thirty-five, but the concentration on his face – the concentration of the boy with the crayons – made him look younger.

As before, George froze the image. "Both wrong again," he said. "Bets off. But do you want to continue?"

Snape cocked his head to one side. "Croydon," he said, then paused. "Malfoy's not dead is he?" he asked after a moment, then relaxed when assured that Lucius, though under arrest and still awaiting trial, was alive and well. "There was a Fidelius charm," he told them, by way of explanation.

"Fascinating," George said, then yelled, "Hermione! Come here and listen to this! You'll love it!"

Hermione came, listened, and pondered. "It must be because he died," she speculated. "His brain still has the information, but the Fidelius charm was worked with the old body. I wonder how many other spells don't work on someone resurrected like that."

"Locomotor Mortis does," Harry volunteered. "We had to use it on him."

"So what's the difference between Locomotor Mortis and Fidelius?" Hermione mused. "Is it that one involves only the body while the other affects the confluence of body and mind? This body's a new one. It's different from the old one. This mind doesn't belong in this body…" She left them, still puzzling over the problem.

Snape placed the laboratory memory into his head, then waited for renewed tingling. It wasn't long in coming. Bets were placed, the memory went into the pensieve, and Snape tapped the surface with his wand.

This time the memory resolved itself into a thick, vaporous fume. As through a fogged veil, the group discerned shadow figures swirling in turgid mists, illuminated now and again by dim flashes of energy, a sort of dull lightning. The group watched, mesmerized. George forgot to call off bets. It took a moment for even Snape to react, but then he stood.

"It's the Dark Lord's mind, when I entered it in the chapel," he informed them. "This is the memory that tells us where he went!" Before anyone could move, he snagged the memory on his wand and placed it in his head.

"Professor!" Harry cried. "Are you sure…?" He stopped as Snape slumped forward onto the table, his hands at his temples. All three of them, Harry, Hagrid, and George, jumped up, uncertain how to react.

"Lad!" Hagrid cried. "Lad! Are ya in pain?" His great hands clasped Snape's shoulders as the professor seemed to struggle for breath.

Harry pulled out his wand and clutched it tightly. It was the memory of Voldemort's mind, it had to be, that was hurting Snape… it had to be. Fearing that Snape might be strangled or suffocated, and praying that the recently inserted memory was still the one closest to the surface, Harry touched Snape's temple with his wand, murmured the release spell, drew a dark gray thread of thought from Snape's mind, and placed it quickly in the pensieve. The reaction from Snape was immediate – he collapsed into a limp heap like a stringless marionette.

"Crikes! Is he dead?" George exclaimed as Hermione and Ron, alerted by the sounds, burst into the room as well.

"Lay him down," Hermione commanded, summoning padding and blankets to a makeshift bed on the floor. "Get him comfortable. Hagrid, how's his breathing?"

Hagrid lowered Snape's body to the blankets. "Seems to be all right. He's breathing slow and gentle now, like he was asleep. Harry, what'd you take out o' him?"

"I thought it was the memory he'd just put in. I'm sure that's what was causing the problem and I thought if I removed it…"

"…the problem would be solved," continued a snide voice behind them. "Typical heavy-handed Gryffindor reaction." Everyone in the room spun towards the table. There, hovering above the surface of the pensieve, was the tiny, slim figure of the pensieve Snape that Harry had gotten to know so well over the preceding month.

"What are you doing there?" Harry shouted, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Talking to you," Snape replied. "You removed me from a head, if you recall. Together with a very distressing memory. Is that the body I've been in? My, my. I shall have to concede that you were right about my getting younger. What's that? Nineteen… twenty?"

"Right about there, I'd reckon," said Hagrid. "Ya gave us quite a turn." He looked down at the resting form on the floor. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't see why not," the little pensieve figure answered. "Rash and rushed as it was, the Gryffindor's action may have been the right one. You said it was breathing. If the heart's strong, I'd say it's just sleeping."

"Why are you calling yourself 'it?'" Hermione demanded, hands on hips. "That's a terribly nasty way to talk."

"What would you say?" retorted Snape. "I can't say 'me' because I'm over here. I can't say 'him' because it doesn't have a separate identity or personality. And I'm certainly not going to say 'her.' You give me another pronoun to use, and I'll use it."

"Are you the same as the Snape we've been talking to in that body?" George asked. "It should be the same mind, right? But he was having memory problems, and his personality wasn't quite the same."

"You were talking to me, all right," Snape told him. "And as for the memory gaps, all the memories are still in there. I don't seem to be missing any knowledge, though. On the other hand, how could I tell what I didn't know? Still there was that business about thestral salve… I wonder if the body got in the way of the mind… an inhibiting factor…"

"You act like the two of you are disconnected." Hermione sounded upset. "It's like you're two different people who have to share the same seat on a bus. That's _you_ there, not some stranger!"

"Well, I will admit to a certain fondness for it," said Snape. "It was nice to be able to run away from you like that and go where I wanted to go. And I liked eating and sleeping. Don't get me wrong, I'm not dumping it. I thoroughly intend to use it. It's just that, despite the superficial resemblance, it's not really me. It's a new body."

"Maybe all ya need's t' get used to it," Hagrid suggested. "After all, ya had thirty-eight years t' get used to the other one, and how long 've ya had this one? Twelve hours?"

"Is that all?" said Snape. "It seemed longer. Well, be that as it may, you have extracted me from that one together with a very interesting memory. Would you like to come inside and have a look? It isn't every day that you get to wander around inside the Dark Lord's mind and not be punished for it."

All but Hagrid agreed that they did, indeed, want to enter the pensieve. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and George gathered around the basin. Snape slipped back into the memory, and the others followed.

They started in the Shrieking Shack where Snape lay bleeding to death. The others had seen it before, but George was stricken with a sense of horror and loss, and had to be pulled away. They didn't have long to wait for first the transition into Deirdre's brain and then into that of Voldemort.

"Hold on," Snape warned them. "It gets bumpy from here."

Bumpy was an understatement. With dizzying rapidity the group found itself flung from visual cortex, to auditory cortex, to speech center, to motor control, in a bewildering, shifting kaleidoscope of movement, catching glimpses of Harry standing in the chapel and fragments of fractured Hawaiian that blocked Voldemort's killing curse as reflexes were activated to deflect his aim. The last thing they saw was Harry pulling Deirdre out of the chapel as fast as he could while Voldemort attacked his own skull with expulsion and dissolution curses and Snape flickered between the various brain centers like a strobe light.

And then, everything exploded into vibrant color and dissolved into a pearl gray mist, and it was over.

The four corporeal viewers were flung back almost violently from the pensieve, and Harry found himself sprawled on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and faced the table, where the dapper figure of pensieve Snape hovered above the memory basin.

"You left rather suddenly," said Snape. "I hope you got everything."

"What," spluttered Ron, rising more slowly, "in the name of Merlin was that?"

"It's like when we were kids," admitted George, "and Fred and I used to spin you round and round so we could watch you throw up. Neat."

"It was all neural connections," Hermione pointed out. "We weren't in any memory areas. I don't see how that can help."

"I was fighting," Snape huffed. "I was trying to keep him from offing glamour boy over there…"

"Nobody's blaming you," said Harry, "but… You must have seen something. When you formed into a person, just before you collapsed, you said that the Voldemort we met in the chapel was the only one left and we had to destroy him."

"I said that?"

"Ya did, lad," Hagrid offered. "I don' know what ya looked at in that pensieve just now, but back there ya said there weren't no more Dark Lords. No more personas. Ya said he was the last. Ya musta seen that somewhere."

Snape thought for a moment, then disappeared from the surface of the pensieve. He was gone for several minutes as the mists swirled madly in the basin. When he returned, he seemed more optimistic.

"It is there. There's a point at the end where I was swept through some surface memories. The problem is finding a way for you to see it."

"Can't I just bring it to the surface of the pensieve and pause it?"

"You can't have it and me on the surface at the same time, and without me you wouldn't know where to…" Snape glanced over at the unconscious form of his younger self. "Put me and the memory back in him – " ("Oh, it's 'him' now that he's going to be useful, I see," Hermione whispered to Ron.) "– and I'll try to isolate just that part of the memory to be viewed. Then you can extract us both and we can look at it. You really need to see it, especially the other wizard."

Once again pensieve Snape vanished into the mist. Harry picked up the strand and replaced it in Snape's body, which quite suddenly sneezed, shook his head and opened his eyes. He did not, however, sit up. "Give me a moment," he said, holding the tips of his fingers to the side of his head and concentrating on the memory. "There. Take it."

As Harry removed the memory strand and Snape slipped into unconsciousness again, Hagrid held one of the young man's hands in his great paws. He was sniffling sadly. "Poor lad, having to let someone else control ya like that. Why can't he just let ya be yerself?"

"Hagrid," said Hermione gently, "that is himself. There's only one mind there. One mind and one body. They just get separated from time to time."

"It ain't fair," said Hagrid.

Three of them entered the pensieve this time, since Ron had lost all interest in the interior workings of Voldemort. Hermione had intellectual curiosity, and George wouldn't miss it for the world. Harry, more than anything, was preparing for the upcoming fight.

Pensieve Snape met them at the end of the Egyptian Avenue in Highgate Cemetery. It was a wild, stormy night, with thunder crashing above the trees. "It's 1971," he told them, "He's returned, and he's refreshing the essence in the flask. He's about to move it to Yorkshire."

Harry and the others never saw the end of the scene, for suddenly they were flipped into another cemetery, one that Harry remembered quite clearly, for it was the Riddle cemetery where his own thought image was battling the memory of Voldemort. "That's when Cedric…" he started to say, but the image had already changed.

"The mind of a legilimens," said Snape as the new image showed himself and Voldemort walking at night in the grounds of Hogwarts, "works through free association." The group jumped to the side of the open white tomb to see Voldemort removing Dumbledore's wand. "They often mistake the rapid succession of thought pictures for intelligence." The memory moved to the castle, where Voldemort's attention focused ominously on the memory image of Snape standing next to him.

Snape's face shifted into the images of other faces – faces of Death Eaters, Harry presumed, since prominent among them were Bella Black and Lucius Malfoy. A brick warehouse and a row of dull houses in an industrial town quickly followed, then a pile of galleons. From there, they were instantly in Diagon Alley, right in front of Gringotts. A youngish Tom Riddle, in his early twenties, was entering the bank in the company of a wizard of about the same age.

"Why are we here?" George asked. "This must have been ages ago."

"The late 1940s, in fact," Snape informed him, only to disappear as the memory ended. Harry was once again outside the pensieve, shaking his bewildered head. Beside him, George looked confused, while Hermione was already concentrating on following the thought associations to some kind of logical conclusion.

Snape appeared above the pensieve, giving George the opportunity to continue their exchange. "How do you know?" George asked.

"Unlike you, I am pure thought. There are non-visual, non-auditory things I picked up as I passed through here the first time. In the memory, I can remember them."

"Okay," George said, "then who were those two blokes? One reminded me of old Marcus Flint. You remember Marcus, don't you, Harry?"

"You're right," said Harry, recalling his first Quidditch games and the ugly, leering, Slytherin Quidditch captain. "Is that Marcus's father?"

"Grandfather," Snape replied.

Hermione interrupted. "His first thought was of where he came from, and why he was in the chapel," she said. "But that cemetery reminded him of the other cemetery and the duel with Harry. Then he remembered the problem of the wands, which in turn led to Dumbledore and the Elder Wand – and to you, of course, as the presumed master of the wand. Thinking of you made him think of assembling the other Death Eaters. After that I'm not so sure."

"The two buildings you saw were our headquarters buildings," Snape told her. "But setting up headquarters and starting all over again requires money. He has to get his hands on money."

"So he thinks of Gringotts!" cried George. "Do you think he has a vault full of galleons there?"

"He must," Harry informed him. "The man with Marcus's grandfather was Voldemort himself. That's Tom Riddle before making horcruxes altered his appearance. I wonder why he was with Mr. Flint."

"I suppose," said Snape, "that if he'd been studying horcruxes and was already planning to take over the wizarding world, he may have envisioned a time when he wouldn't be able to enter Gringotts himself. He tended to use Bella's vault."

Hermione nodded "He did. That's where we found the cup horcrux. Do you think he has another vault? One in the name of Marcus Flint's grandfather?"

"I bet he does!" Harry shouted. "That's where we catch him! He's going to sent Flint to Gringotts for money, and we follow Flint straight to Voldemort!"

Hermione looked glum. "What if he's already done it? He had all afternoon. If he's taken the money already, we'd be wasting our time while he set up his new organization."

"We could find out from Gringotts if the Flint vault's been opened," Ron suggested.

George reached over and tousled Ron's hair. "Right. The goblins are going to tell us about the activities of their clients."

"No," said Snape. "That's actually a decent idea. They'd never tell us, of course, but they might respond to an official request from the Ministry."

Harry grinned. "I thought you hated the Ministry."

"I do, but when all other roads are blocked, you have to swallow your feelings and use the resources that are available."

"So who do we contact?"

"The one that knows me best and has always been fairest to me is Gawain Robards." Snape pointed to his body, slumbering next to a watchful Hagrid. "And I'll travel as a wizard, thank you. But you bring the pensieve. Just in case."

Harry's own position got them into the Ministry at that late hour and to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but the night duty officer did not want to disturb Robards on Harry's say-so. She seemed especially leery of Snape, who was now dressed in robes and a long cape with a hood that concealed part of his face.

"Look," Harry insisted leaning forward with his hands on her desk, "how bad could it be? It's only around ten o'clock. Does he go to bed at eight? It'd take just a couple of minutes. Tell him I think it's urgent. If he wants to come see me, he will. If he wants to send me away, he will. Just think what'll happen to you, though, if it is urgent and you don't tell him."

The duty officer grumbled her way into the next room where she had floo communication. The next moment she stuck her head through the door. "He wants to know your friend's name."

"Richard Snape," Snape said immediately, which sent Harry's eyebrows up, though he didn't comment.

A moment later the two of them were told to wait outside Robards's office. He would be coming in by floo in a few minutes.

The two 'teenagers' sat in silence for several minutes, and then the office door opened and Robards stepped into the corridor. "I had to see this," he told Harry, "because the only Richard Snape I know is dead." He turned to Snape. "Well?"

Snape pushed back the hood and let Robards study his face. "I don't believe it," the auror said. "You look even younger than at your trial. You know, after all these years, that's still the sharpest image I have of you – the look on your face when I handed you that photo and you realized your spells had been used to kill that little girl. I knew at that moment you weren't really a Death Eater."

"We all make mistakes," said Snape.

"Come inside. You have to tell me what's happened and why… how you're here. I can send for coffee and something to eat."

Neither Harry nor Snape having eaten dinner, they both accepted the offer of food, though Snape was actually more interested in the coffee. Harry took out the pensieve and laid it on Robards's desk as he explained about Snape's death and the gift of his memories. "I'd like to see that, if you don't mind," Robards told him.

"You can't, can you?" Snape asked Harry. "That memory's with Miss Dowd."

"No, I got it back outside the chapel, before Ginny and Neville took her back to London." He extracted the memory from his head and let Robards watch it in the pensieve. Snape, understandably, rose and went to the other side of the room to stare at pictures on the wall.

"Amazing," said Robards. "The preservation of an entire personality _post mortem._ What about the body?"

So Harry had to explain about pensieve Snape getting younger and stronger, and the lock of hair, and DNA, and their hunting of Voldemort. It got confused in the telling, but Snape helped him clarify the unclear parts, and by the time he was finished Robards was looking very concerned indeed.

"Show me Voldemort's memory," Robards requested, and so Snape lay down on the floor to let Harry extract both memory and personality. Robards spent some time examining pensieve Snape, fascinated by the tiny mannikin. Harry thought Snape was admirably calm about the whole business.

"They're not the same age," Robards pointed out – something that Harry hadn't focused on.

"What do you mean?"

"The body's about eighteen," said Robards. "The personality appears to be around twenty-eight. And you say the memories are those of the dead professor, who was thirty-eight. Three different decades." Robards then left Harry to ponder this anomaly while he accompanied Snape into the memory to watch as Voldemort worried about getting the money to finance a new attempt at power and domination.

"I think you're right," was Robards decision after he emerged from the pensieve. "If you don't mind, I'm getting Kingsley in here. Anything from us to Gringotts is going to have to come from him."

The floo connection was made, Shacklebolt arrived and was briefed on the new developments, and a formal request was made to Gringotts asking if there had been any recent activity in any accounts belonging to one Quintus Flint, wizard. The Ministry apologized for the late hour of the request, but the matter was urgent. Gringotts replied an hour later that there had been no activity in any such account for over a year.

"That's it," said Shacklebolt to Robards when the response was delivered around one in the morning. "We stake out Gringotts. Get photos of Quintus Flint and distribute them to the aurors. I want a crew positioned in Diagon Alley when the bank and the shops open."

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	12. Chapter 12

13

_Wednesday, January 27, 1999 and Beyond_

Harry, an auror-in-training, was allowed to join the stakeout, as was the teenage Snape in the capacity of a consultant, he being the one most intimately knowledgeable about Voldemort's thinking. The rest of the aurors were not told his identity, though several of them whispered about his uncanny resemblance to the late Potions instructor and speculated as to the possibility of their dead teacher's having had a son. He was treated with courtesy and some respect.

Around ten o'clock that morning, Quintus Flint entered Gringotts bank. Aurors inside reported that he produced the key to a vault and asked to make a withdrawal. He was taken down into the bowels of Gringotts and emerged later with a heavy bag. No one made any move to hinder him, and he left the bank unsuspecting.

Different aurors picked up the trail, and Quintus was followed to a spot where he disapparated. They waited, then followed the apparation signature. It led to open moors. From there the group of aurors began a search pattern that gradually increased its circumference until they found the next apparation trail, which they also followed. Flint, in fact, made three decoy jumps before he finally went to where Voldemort was waiting.

Flint's last apparation was to Ullswater in the Lake District, where the outflow from the lake formed the river Eamont. It being January, the area was relatively deserted. The little group soon located a small lodge that seemed to be occupied. Snape joined the aurors in scanning the area for alarms and traps, then they moved in. Flint and Voldemort were indeed inside. Four aurors positioned themselves at compass points, with the others inside the circle and, at a command from Robards, set up a disapparation shield that covered the lodge and the area around it.

The response from the lodge was a fierce howl of rage. "Fools!" shrieked Voldemort. "You have no idea with whom you deal! I shall crush you all!" At that word, the lodge exploded, sending debris in all directions. Harry, Snape, and the aurors dived for the ground, shooting up shielding spells to protect them from the flying wood and glass. Some of the wreckage tore through the disapparation shields, and the aurors maintaining the spells struggled to keep them up.

Voldemort wheeled and sent a blasting spell hurtling in Robards's direction. Robards's own shield held, but the impact of the blast lifted him clear of the earth and flung him against the larger shield. Dropping to the ground, he lay motionless.

Ignoring Robards, who was now no threat, Voldemort attacked two other aurors, throwing them against the shield as well. His wand then swung to point at one of the aurors supporting the outer shield. A wall of fire shot towards the man, forcing his comrades to defend him to keep the outer shield intact. Voldemort spun to pick off the defenders with knife spells, and though Harry attacked him from behind with a Stupefy, Voldemort's own shields caused the spell to bounce off harmlessly. Snape, meanwhile, rushed to heal the cut aurors. With a sweep of his arm, Voldemort immobilized three others.

It was then Harry remembered they were dealing with a Voldemort whose essence had been fortified by soulstone for nearly ten months. The power that raged before them was multiplied by the influence of the flask, and it increased by several times the force he was able to pit against them. Harry thought of the Half-Blood Prince, and hit Voldemort with a Sectumsempra. All it managed to do was nick Voldemort's hand, but it caused Voldemort to turn and focus on the presence of Harry.

"Sooo…" he hissed. "The Chosen One presumes to challenge me. I see you carry the phoenix wand, but that was broken, they told me. Do you not know that such a wand, even when repaired, is never the same again?" He raised his own wand and aimed it. _"Avada Kedavra!"_ he screamed, swinging the wand to cast the spell at one of the shield-bearing aurors.

Harry, reading the move in Voldemort's eyes, reacted in the same instant. Stretching to one side, he cast a simultaneous spell to push the auror out of the way. The killing curse hit the shield, which collapsed in a shower of sparks. Voldemort paid it no attention. Instead he whirled toward the unprotected Harry. _"Avada Kedavra!"_ he cried again.

From the side, where he had been edging closer, Snape leapt forward. His momentum knocked into Harry and carried both of them to the ground, but not before the green bolt of Voldemort's spell hit Snape squarely in the back. As Snape's body struck the dirt, he rolled sideways, leaving Harry free to move.

"No!" Harry screamed, on his feet at once, shooting another Sectumsempra at Voldemort, who tossed it aside with distain and advanced on Harry.

Snape was faster, though. Rolling to a sitting position, he fired his own spell at Voldemort with a cry of _"Holocaustum!"_ The Fiendfyre engulfed Voldemort in an inferno. Around them the aurors dropped what was left of the shielding and darted in to drag their comrades away from the raging flames of the blazing Voldemort. Harry pulled Snape to his feet, and together they fled the circle of destruction. A safe distance away, they turned. Voldemort was a screaming torch, flailing around in the ruins of the destroyed lodge, a pillar of fire that finally collapsed into a smoldering heap and burned itself into a pile of ashes.

Harry turned to Snape. "What?" he gasped. "How?" He had to touch Snape – touch his clothes, touch his hair – to assure himself that Snape was alive. "Why aren't you dead?"

"I am dead," Snape said slapping at Harry's hands. "I died last May. Didn't you ever wonder how the killing curse works? It doesn't injure the body. It separates the spirit from the body, and the body dies. My spirit's already separated from my body. There's nothing a killing curse can do to me."

By the end of the day, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had to issue injunctions to its entire staff in the Auror Agency forbidding them from mentioning the fact that an outside operative attached temporarily to a squad had survived a killing curse. Shacklebolt was personally debriefing everyone who had been present, starting with Harry, and Snape was in protective custody. Robards was at a disadvantage because he'd been unconscious at the time and had to rely on Harry's pensieve memory of the event for details.

_Thursday, January 28, 1999_

"Now," said Shacklebolt gently as Harry, seething inwardly, sat on a sofa in the Minister's office, "I understand you are upset, but this in an unprecedented occurrence, and we need to handle it properly. We have here an entity…"

"He's not an entity. He's a person!"

"That has not been determined yet. He is an entity with self-awareness and self-motivation…"

"Not to mention highly opinionated," added Robards.

"And highly opinionated. His existence is independent of any body. He has a body, but he travels around in it the way other people ride broomsticks. He can inhabit thoughts and can insinuate himself undetected into another person's mind. If he wishes, he can even control the speech and actions of the other. Effectively he could turn another person into a kind of robot. He cannot be killed by a killing curse… And you are trying to tell me he is not dangerous?"

"He would never do that," Harry insisted. "He's not that kind of a person."

"He was a Death Eater. He was amenable to the idea of killing Dumbledore. His sense of morality is highly subjective. Who knows what he might decide to do." Shacklebolt turned to Robards. "What is the current situation?"

"Right now he's in custody in a holding room in the Auror Agency. He's been there since shortly after noon yesterday. He's inhabiting a cloned body that's approximately two days old, so we don't know how stable it is. The fact that a killing curse doesn't affect him is legal evidence that the body isn't rightfully his. Legally he's dead. His original body was buried ten months ago, and though it hasn't been disinterred, it can be presumed it isn't fit to be used any longer. I have a legal team investigating how many laws Mr. Potter here broke in accepting another person's dying personality, retaining it without informing authorities, working magic to sustain and enhance it without first obtaining proper licenses, using it to invade another person's privacy, and creating an unauthorized clone. We're processing the papers for a hearing by the Wizengamot, but that will take time."

Harry jumped to his feet. "This is ridiculous!" he yelled at the two of them. "Of course the body's his! It was made from a lock of his own hair. All you have to do is look at it to tell it's him! Besides, you owe him a debt. If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have been able to destroy the last vestige of Voldemort."

"On the other hand," Shacklebolt pointed out, "if it were not for you and him, that last vestige of Voldemort would never have been released. You are asking us to reward you for defeating a danger that you deliberately caused."

"Speaking of a reward," Robards said with an apologetic cough, "there is one. I also need to know who to give it to."

"What are you talking about?"

"Quintus Flint wasn't obliviated by Voldemort. He remembers what happened. He says the contents of the Gringotts vault weren't his and he doesn't want any legal action. He's turned everything over to the Ministry. There are things there that can be proven to have been stolen and will be returned to their rightful owners. As for the rest, there are no legal heirs, so it devolves on the Ministry. There's a standard reward of ten percent to the person who exposes such a situation and…"

"That would be Harry, would it not?" said Shacklebolt.

"No," Harry rejoined. "It wouldn't be me at all. It'd be Snape."

"Who has not yet been determined to be a legal person."

"But who was a legal person," continued Robards, "and who may have legal heirs."

Shacklebolt drew back a little, peering at Robards shrewdly. "Do you know of any?"

"Perhaps," Robards answered with a perfectly straight face. "I have heard mention of a nephew – a muggle – named Richard. I can have my people check it out."

"Do it," Shacklebolt ordered. "I think we have gone as far as we can for the moment. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir," said Robards, and he and Harry left the office.

Once away from Shacklebolt, Harry turned to Robards. "Nephew? What are you doing?"

"Trying to help," said Robards with a sigh. "Come with me. We need to talk to Severus."

Arriving at Snape's holding room, Robards told the guards they could take a break, which they did thankfully. Harry and Robards then entered the room. Snape was lying on a cot staring at the ceiling. "Am I free to go?" he asked.

"No such luck," replied Harry.

"Then why are you here?"

Robards sat in the only chair, leaning back and propping his right leg on his left knee. "The Ministry's recovered some stolen property," he said. "There's a reward. Your name came up, but it was pointed out that you're legally dead."

"I would have guessed there was a technicality," said Snape. He didn't look at them.

"Yes," said Robards, "but it only applies to you. Not to your heirs."

"I don't have any heirs."

"No? I was sure I'd heard you mention a nephew. Or maybe it was a cousin. Somebody named Richard."

There was a pause, and then Snape swung his legs off the cot and sat up. "Richard's a common name," he said.

"Among muggles, maybe," said Robards. "Wizards tend to use more eccentric names like Severus."

"Why would you help me?"

Robards leaned forward. "I met you during a bad point in my life. Around me there was nothing but evil and cynicism. It was depressing and demoralizing. Then I met someone who really was naive, really was appalled at what he'd helped do, and I started to think that maybe some of the other clerks and healers really were just clerks and healers. It gave me a whole new outlook on life."

"Did you know I killed Moody?"

Robards stopped and drew back. "No," he said. "Why would you tell me that?"

"I thought, if you were going to get all sentimental, that you should know."

"Is it something you want to show me?" When Snape nodded, Robards rose, went to the door, and asked an aide to bring him a pensieve. That accomplished, he, Snape, and Harry watched the memory of Alastor Moody's death. When it was finished, Robards leaned back in the chair.

"It was good of you to let me see that. It actually makes me feel better."

"I didn't want you to think I was keeping anything from you."

"So, can you give us the information to start processing the reward in favor of your heir?"

"I don't see why not."

Robards then left Harry and Snape alone for a while. "What was all that about?" Harry asked. "Everything I've seen says you don't have any heirs. No relatives at all, in fact."

"No? Maybe I'm my own heir." Snape folded his arms across his chest and gazed at Harry. "Did you know I have a muggle birth certificate? My dad's family registered my birth right after I was born. It never occurred to them that wizards might be different from muggles. So within the muggle world, I am a legal person, one Richard Severus Snape. Or, as it will probably appear on the bank account, Richard S. Snape. I can't help but wonder, though, what Robards wants in return."

"Did it ever enter your mind that he might not want anything?" Harry asked.

"He's not only a wizard," said Snape, "but an auror. He must want something."

_February 1999_

More than a week passed as the Ministry debated Snape's legal status and at the same time processed the papers in favor of his 'cousin's' inheriting his reward. On Monday, February 8, Robards again asked Harry to accompany him to a meeting with Snape in his prison.

"They've decided you're too useful to let go," Robards told them in the privacy of the cell.

"What does that mean?" Snape asked.

"It means you're an operative who can't be destroyed by a killing curse. It means that even if some other curse kills your body, they'll still be able to recover your mind, put it in a new body, and use it. Think of the under cover work you could do – in the mind of one of the suspects."

"I don't want to work for the Ministry," said Snape.

"I hear you. Meanwhile, I've arranged for you to go out in the custody of Potter to arrange the transfer of funds to your 'cousin.' I count on you to come back, though."

"Agreed," said Snape.

Snape made several trips away from the Ministry in the custody of Harry. The first was to Barclay's Bank in London, where Harry discovered that Snape already had a muggle bank account in the name of Richard S. Snape. The only magic he had to perform was a temporary aging spell to make himself appear closer to the thirty-nine years old he was supposed to be. One of the bank clerks even recognized him, and they had a short, friendly conversation. Snape mentioned that he had a young relative who would be inheriting a rather large sum of money, and who might be coming in soon to open an account. He was certain the bank clerk would see immediately that they were related.

"Why didn't I ever know about this side of your life before?" Harry demanded once they were again outside.

"It was none of your business," said Snape. He'd dodged into a side street to remove the aging spell, and they now looked like a couple of teenagers.

"Did Dumbledore know?"

"Yes, and I had to bring him with me once. Everyone at the bank thought I was wonderful for taking such good care of my senile old grandfather."

On another trip, the two went to Lancashire, to a little village about five miles from the town where Snape and Harry's mother had grown up. A half mile's walk north of the village brought them to the ruins of a long-ago burnt-out cottage surrounded by untended growth that had once probably been a large garden. Snape stopped to lean on the rickety fence, his breath a small fog in the cold air.

"Did you know this place?" Harry asked.

"It was my grandmother's. I learned my first potions and charms here."

A car drove by on the lonely country road, slowed at the sight of the strangers, then accelerated past them. Snape watched it drive away. "We'll be having company soon," he said. Neither moved for a while, Harry allowing Snape his memories.

Then, carefully opening the dilapidated gate, Snape entered the garden, wading through the tall dead grass of the previous year and pushing the brush aside. Next to the cottage was what must have been a culinary herb garden, for prominent in it was a large, gnarled rosemary bush nearly as tall as Snape was. He bent down, gathered a few dry leaves from a smaller plant, crushed them in his fingers and let Harry sniff.

"Oregano," Harry said. "What happened here?"

"It's a long story," said Snape, gazing around. "Maybe I'll tell it to you some day."

Out on the road, two cars stopped, one of them a police car from which stepped a young local constable. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he called to them, "may I ask…" He stopped, staring at Snape. "Here, are you a member of the family?"

"It'd be foolish of me to deny it, wouldn't it?" replied Snape.

"Did you know her?" the policeman asked, entering the garden and approaching the two young men.

"Nah. She died before I was born." Snape looked around. "No one's bought it?"

"Some have tried. They say it's haunted."

"Maybe it is."

There was a long pause, which was somehow relaxed and comfortable rather than awkward. The constable gazed around the ancient, overgrown garden, and Harry did likewise, noting that there were still trellises and ornamental features under the mask of weeds and wild intrusive shrubs. He also noticed that the budding of new growth was already shading the garden with a fresh patina of pale green, and that bees buzzed around the flowers of early bulb plants – crocuses and snowdrops. The garden, abandoned though it was, seemed more alive, more vibrant than the surrounding countryside.

The constable cleared his throat. "You wouldn't have come by any of the family talent, by chance?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"There's many remember Mrs. Prince. She was a fine lady. We'd not complain to see the family back."

"It's something to consider. There'd be work to do though."

"Well, the house agent's in Colne." The constable returned to his car, and both vehicles drove away.

Harry studied Snape's profile for a while. "Are you thinking of buying it?" he asked.

Snape didn't answer the question. "Let's get back to London," he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

One good thing about working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was that Harry was able to visit Snape almost every day for the next several weeks. He was there at the beginning of April when Snape was informed that the Wizengamot would review his case. The hearing was set for the next day.

"Don't I get a lawyer?" Snape asked.

"You don't need a lawyer," he was told. "You haven't been charged with a crime."

Harry begged for and got permission to sit in the gallery during the hearing. It was granted on the condition that he remain silent. He'd just settled into his seat in the great council chamber when Snape was led in and ushered toward the seat in the center, the one with the serpentine restraints.

"No," Snape said firmly, stopping and turning to face the empty box where the president of the council usually sat. "That chair is for the accused. I haven't been accused of anything."

"We really would like you to sit," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, who himself sat to one side. "We'd like you to be comfortable."

"I would not be comfortable there. Unless you intend to accuse me of something, I'd prefer to stand."

Tiberius Maddox rose from his place at Shacklebolt's elbow. "If you would prefer, there is the matter of illegally producing the clone of a human being from unauthorized genetic tissue…"

"I didn't do that. It was done without my knowledge or consent."

"You're benefitting from it. It's a bit like receiving stolen goods."

"Easy, Tiberius," said Shacklebolt. "I think we can resolve this by merely bringing in another chair. You would be willing to sit in a different chair, I take it?"

Snape consented, there being no good reason to refuse, and the proceedings started, Maddox first explaining that this was a committee meeting, not a trial, and that they were investigating the rather unique case of a post-mortem cognitive survival coupled with the unauthorized production of a clone – Case CZX 1-3875.

"Do you have a name we could use?" Maddox asked.

"Severus Snape," Snape replied.

"Date of birth?"

"January 9, 1960."

"I'm afraid we can't use that. It's the identity of a wizard known to be deceased. A wizard well-known to several members of this committee who studied Potions with him at Hogwarts. They have testified that you bear a resemblance to their Potions professor, but that you're obviously much younger."

"It's nevertheless my name."

"I'm sorry, 3875, though if you should come up with another we could use, the committee will consider it. Now, let's review the first consideration, which is that your cognitive abilities are, in fact, those of the late Severus Snape, which were removed from his brain shortly before his death, an action which may, in fact, have hastened his death."

"I was already dying…"

"How do you know? Do you remember the incident?"

Snape paused, and Harry recalled that the memory was still in a carafe in his rooms in Avery Row. "No," Snape replied after a moment, "I don't remember it."

"Why not?"

"I think that memory has been placed somewhere else."

"We should note, then, that this entity, 3875, has cognitive functions that are sometimes contained in one place and time, but which can be separated and scattered into several different locations, resulting in a partial personality. Would that be a fair assessment?"

"No. My memories can be removed, but the personality remains unified and unchanged."

"How can you be sure if you can't remember everything?"

"That's not fair!" Harry cried, rising in the gallery and forgetting his promise to Robards. "He's not responsible for removing the memories. I did that."

Maddox smiled. "I'm afraid you'll have to be escorted from the chamber, Mr. Potter, for interrupting the proceedings. I do wish to thank you, however, for your valuable assistance. We must also take into consideration the fact that 3875's memory and cognitive functions can be manipulated by outside persons without his consent and possible without his knowledge…"

Harry saw no more of the hearing, for he was required to leave.

The result of the committee hearing was a foregone conclusion, and Robards came to inform Harry of it before Snape was returned to his rooms. Case CZX 1-3875, the cognitive entity which contained a portion of the psyche of the late Severus Snape in an artificially formed body, was deemed not to be a fully legal human being and was placed in the wardship of the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry was enjoined to provide the entity with comfortable surroundings, care for its health and welfare, and give it challenging intellectual tasks in order to maintain the efficiency of its functioning. Several of the members of Wizengamot wished to review the case further to determine if the entity, while not legally responsible, might not be accorded status similar to that of a minor child, which would allow it access to the court if its needs were not being met.

xxxxxxxxxx

Needless to say, Snape was depressed.

"You know," Harry said with mock humor, "in a way it serves you right. Weren't you referring to your body as 'it' several weeks ago?"

"Ha, ha," replied Snape. "Watch me keel over with mirth. Very amusing." He was sitting at the table in a little two-room suite that was his upgraded jail. Robards had brought coffee and some sandwiches and pastries for lunch. Snape had taken the coffee, proclaimed himself not hungry, then started to munch on the sandwiches after all. "What happens next?"

"We wait for the next hearing, which should be in about a week," Robards explained. "You must have made an impression on someone, otherwise they wouldn't entertain the motion to explore revising the decision."

"It wouldn't change anything, though, would it?" Harry asked. "The Ministry would still control him."

"It would keep them… us from experimenting with him or treating him like some kind of tool to be used and exploited. That's something."

"I want to talk about my options," Snape said. "Right now, while the matter is still pending with the council, what exactly are all my options? Am I still allowed to go outside the Ministry if I have a guard, for example?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me a guard," Harry complained. "I'm on your side."

"Right now," Robards admitted, "you have a lot of freedom of action. The decision on your status is still pending, and might improve in terms of your ability to insist on certain norms of treatment. In general, the fewer rights you have, the happier the aurors will be. They think you should be quite optimistic right now."

"What's your position, if you don't mind my asking?" Snape reached for one of the pastries and poured another cup of coffee.

Robards looked embarrassed. "Officially I'm supporting the others and hoping we get custody of you. Between us, I think the whole situation stinks. I'm trying to remember if there was ever any time in your life when you were free to make your own decisions: child, student, Death Eater, on parole most of your adult life – I'll bet even as headmaster that portrait was still in charge."

"You've got that one right," said Snape. "And a dictatorial old coot he was."

As the afternoon progressed, the three discussed Snape's options in gradually greater detail…

Two days later, Case CZX 1-3875 was permitted to go to the Cornwall coast to collected seaweed and shellfish, and certain small spring flowers, for the purpose of potions brewing. He was not permitted the use of his wand, and would be accompanied by auror intern Harry J. Potter and Director of the Auror Agency Gawain Robards. He was reminded that the hearing on the upgrading of his legal status would be held in four days' time.

The area they went to was a bit of sloping ground that rose to a steep cliff overlooking the sea. Waves crashed against the sharp rocks below, but the three moved away from the cliff to search the more sheltered grassy slope. Snape showed the other two what plants to gather. After about twenty minutes, he told them he was going to check on some bushes closer to the edge.

Harry and Robards studiously continued harvesting their herbs for several minutes more, then Robards held a tiny yellow blossom up for examination. "You don't think he's gone too far, do you?" he asked.

Both turned. Snape was near the top of the cliff, watching them. When he realized they were looking at him, he faced away and strode upwards. Harry screamed, "Professor!" and started to run, Robards right behind him. They weren't fast enough.

Snape sprinted the last few yards to the cliff's edge and threw himself forward. By the time Harry and Robards reached the spot, all that could be seen below were rocks protruding from the water. The tide was going out.

The circumstance that saved Harry from being sacked on the spot was the presence of Gawain Robards on the scene. Harry could hardly have been held accountable if the situation was under the control of his superior. Nevertheless, both Robards and Harry spent hours in front of the Wizengamot describing and explaining what had happened.

The primary witness in the case was a pensieve. Both men agreed to allow their memory of the incident to be reviewed by the council in detail. The two memories were identical in every way. Robards, Harry, and Snape – now that he was gone, the inhibition against using Snape's name seemed to have disappeared as well – had gone to Cornwall and begun gathering herbs. Snape's behavior had seemed perfectly normal and he had said and done nothing that might have alerted the others to a problem. He appeared to have been moving slowly until the other wizards noticed how near the cliff he was, and then he ran. Other Agency witnesses came forward to testify that he had seemed in good spirits waiting for the review of his case and that there was no particular reason for either Robards or Harry to have suspected that he intended suicide.

Shacklebolt was furious, but all Harry and Robards received was a note in their files to the effect that they had not been sufficiently rigorous in keeping Snape within reach. Given the movement of current and tide, it was understood that the body could not be recovered.

It was even agreed that there was no need to notify Snape's next-of-kin, since the cousin to whom the reward had been consigned was already aware that Snape had died. It was regrettable, but the case was closed.

xxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon at the beginning of May, Harry stopped at Robards's office on his way home. "I just wanted you to know that I'm going to be visiting Lancashire this weekend. Anything you want me to do for you while I'm there?"

Robards looked up from the papers on his desk. "That's kind of you," he said. "Give my regards, and let me know if there are any problems."

"Sure," said Harry, and left for Mrs. Nokes's boarding house.

Everything in the house was back to normal. Mrs. Purdy's supper that night was sea bass, the Dowd sisters kept up a lively conversation, and Mrs. Nokes refereed a political discussion between the gentlemen. Harry didn't participate much, though he listened a good deal.

The next morning, Harry apparated to Lancashire carrying a moderately heavy package. He went first to the town where Snape and his own mother had grown up, then walked the five miles to the village. From there he turned north to the little cottage. It was amazing how much damage could be removed from a burned-out shell of a house in so short a time, and it was an indication of how well Constantina Prince had been known to the locals that no one cared to remark on it. The fence was repaired, and the garden had been cleared of most of its weeds and overgrowth.

Leaning on the fence, Harry called to a figure working in the garden, "Excuse me, but I'm looking for a Richard Snape. I was told he lived here."

The young man with the jet-black hair and eyes rose from planting herbs. He wiped the dirt from his hands with a towel. "I'm Richard Snape," he said, glancing up and down the narrow country road and seeing no one. "You're up early for a Saturday."

"I had someone I wanted to talk to," Harry replied. "Robards sends his regards."

"He doesn't know where I am, does he?"

"Doesn't know, and hasn't asked. Nobody else has asked either, but I know a couple of people who are itching for the information, Hagrid first among them."

"Maybe later, after I'm sure things have settled down. Is that for me?"

Harry handed him the package. "Quite a few people worked on it," he said. "We hope it's okay."

'It' was two flasks, one green and one purple. They had identical shapes, rather like Egyptian sarcophaguses or coffins, and they were made from a glasslike stone.

"That's very nice," said Snape. "Would you like to come in for a cuppa?"

"I would," said Harry, and followed him into the cottage.

xxxxxxxxxx

Here ends the story.

The sequel is titled _Elementary, My Dear Potter_


End file.
